The Practicum
by TheFicChick
Summary: "We're going to be teaching high schoolers how not to get each other knocked up or infected with gonorrhea. It's hardly a romantic evening for two."
1. Chapter 1

**The Practicum**

**Rating:** M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary:** Anyone seen "Grease 2"? Remember the song "Reproduction" from the Sex Ed class? Well, this is sort of like that, but not at all.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, though I'd happily sit through a Sex Ed lecture given by one Edward Cullen. Who's with me? (Also, I'm not a health teacher. Good thing, too, if this story is any indication of what _that _train wreck would look like.)

**Acknowledgement: **HollettLA. Still beta'ing. Still awesome.

_A/N: This is light. Fluffy. Like, cotton candy fluffy, and just as sickeningly sweet (except when it's dirty). If you're looking for angst, move along. If you like fluff and porn and naked Edward, pull up a chair._

* * *

**Chapter One**

"Youuuuu lucky bitch," Jessica mutters around the salted rim of her margarita glass and I laugh.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You get to teach Sex Ed with Mr. Sex-on-Legs? Like I said, youuuuu lucky bitch." She takes a generous slurp of her slushy drink and returns it to the table before snagging a corn chip from the black plastic basket between us and dunking it in the salsa.

"It's not like I'm _having_ sex with him," I defend, even though the reality of teaching the ins and outs – so to speak – with the man doesn't leave me completely unaffected.

Jessica shrugs. "Still, if I'd known the ol' Clapper was going to keel over dead and be replaced by that fuckhot piece of man-meat, I'd have volunteered to be the female half of the Sex Ed lecture _years_ ago."

I take a small sip of my own frozen Friday night libation. "Perhaps God's rewarding me for my selflessness," I suggest and smirk when she glares at me.

"If you were truly selfless, you'd use this opportunity to give him my number."

"Didn't you already give him your number?"

She shrugs. "Maybe he lost it."

I smile as Angela slides into the booth beside me. "Sorry, sorry, I'm late, I know, I suck." She dumps her purse on the floor beneath the table and shrugs out of her coat as the waiter appears beside the table. "I'll have one of those," she says, gesturing toward Jessica's and my glasses. "Frozen and salted." As the waiter disappears, she retrieves a chip from the basket. "What'd I miss?"

"Bella gets to teach Sex Ed with Edward Cullen," Jessica bemoans and Angela pops the chip in her mouth, nodding.

"Nice."

I roll my eyes again. "You guys. It's a health class, not a demonstration."

We all fall silent for a moment as our minds drift; it's Angela who brings us back. "Still. It's got to be better than filling that part of the curriculum with Coach Clapp," she says as she dunks another chip, and Jessica snorts into her margarita. "What?" Angela asks around her mouthful.

"I may already be buzzed because I desperately want to do something clever with 'fill' and 'clap' but I can't. It's Friday and my brain is fried."

"You guys. Stop. I'm sorry I even brought it up."

"That's what she said," Jessica interjects in an obvious attempt to eradicate any disappointment from her previous inability to be a pervert, and I shake my head in disapproval.

"That was a miss," I tell her.

She sighs and takes another slurp as Jasper appears beside the table. "I know. I'm late. I suck."

"So we've heard," Jessica replies, and his eyebrows climb slightly as he lowers himself to the brown plastic bench seat beside her. I wave a hand in Jessica's general direction.

"Ignore her. Sex Ed is coming up and her mind is evidently going to be in the gutter for the duration of the night."

"Ah, yes, the birds and the bees talk with the teenagers of Forks. Better you than me, Bella." He pauses to order a beer from the waiter who has reappeared with Angela's margarita before his blue eyes find me and a small smile pulls at his mouth. "Wait a minute. New PE teacher, which means no more watching Coach Clapp bumble his way through the female anatomy. Figuratively speaking, thank God."

"New _hot_ PE teacher," Jessica amends, and Jasper nods sagely.

"Yeeeees, that's right, the famous Mr. Cullen." His eyebrows dance. "I certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed. Soccer players have phenomenal bodies."

I hold up a hand. "Okay. All of you, stop it. I'm going to have to listen to this man say things like 'erection' and 'ejaculation,' and if we keep talking about this I'm not going to be able to handle that like a professional, so cool it."

"I'd like to see him do more than just say it," Jessica mutters, and Jasper nods in silent agreement. My only comfort is Angela, who pats me on the shoulder.

"You're a pro. You'll be fine." She arches a brow in the direction of Jasper's just-arrived beer. "No margarita tonight?"

Jasper pinches the barely-there skin at his waist. "It's March. Time to start prepping the bod for the summer. Do you have any idea how many calories are in one of those things?"

"Yes," Jessica says, slurping away. "And every single one of them is fucking delicious. Stop being such queen."

"Darlin', I _am_ a queen," he replies, winking as he takes a pull from the bottle of Corona Light, and before I can become too grateful that the conversation has moved on from my upcoming stint as a fill-in health teacher, Jessica brings us back full-circle.

"I'm so jealous."

"Jess. For the last time. It's a _lesson_. We're going to be teaching _high schoolers_ how not to get each other knocked up or infected with gonorrhea. It's hardly a romantic evening for two. Plus, you teach these kids; you know exactly how ridiculous they can be."

Finally, she's yanked out of her hornball stupor. "Yes. God, did you hear about Royce King and Emmett McCarty getting into a fist fight in the lunch room on Tuesday over Rosalie Hale?" The conversation turns blessedly to run-of-the-mill school gossip, and I lean against the padded backrest of the booth. Our weekly margarita-fests are not only one of the few standing social engagements I have, but are one of the rare times we're all able to catch up on things. Although we're in the same building all day every day, we see surprisingly little of each other.

Jessica and I graduated in the same class from Forks High School, and when I returned after college to start teaching English, she was the other new addition to the faculty. To my surprise – and, I suspect, the surprise of everyone who meets her – Jessica is a science whiz and teaches the AP and advanced chemistry and physics courses.

Angela grew up in Seattle and taught in the city's public school system for a few years before deciding that she'd rather teach in a smaller school setting; when the art teacher packed up and shipped off to New York City to try to "make it big" as an artist, Angela became the new kid in town.

Jasper teaches calculus, geometry, and trigonometry and is perhaps the most unlikely math teacher ever. Everything about his appearance and persona screams "hippie cowboy," when in reality he's a homosexual math nerd. He had quite a time discouraging Jessica's affections in his first few weeks at Forks until he came right out and told her he liked men. Almost immediately he became the fourth member of our Friday night margarita troupe.

While our collective bond initially sparked because we were the only teachers at Forks High School under the age of forty-five, the four of us have since discovered that our personalities complement each other well and have built a pretty solid friendship. It occurs to me as I sip my margarita that there is now a fifth teacher under the age of forty-five in town, and I wonder idly if he likes Mexican food.

"We should invite him," I say suddenly in an interjection completely unrelated to the conversation at hand, and Jasper frowns.

"Invite who where, darlin'?"

I flush slightly, embarrassed at my train of thought given that I was the one begging for a subject change. "Edward Cullen. I was just thinking… he's young, and he probably doesn't really know anybody in town. We should invite him out for margaritas."

Jessica nods with the enthusiasm of a bobble-head doll while Jasper seems to be mulling it over. "Maybe," he says slowly. "Though he seems a little uptight."

"Really?" I haven't spent a single minute in Edward Cullen's presence since the welcome luncheon the principal organized shortly after he was hired, at which our interaction began and ended with a handshake and a standard "nice to meet you."

He shrugs, taking another swig of his chick-beer. "I dunno. See what you think. If you like him, I'm sure we'll like him." He waggles his eyebrows again, a Jasper trademark. "I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunity to get to know him while you guys talk about bonin'."

When the chip I throw at him bounces off his forehead, he grins and winks.

* * *

"Mr. Cullen?"

The figure hunched over the water fountain straightens, the whistle looped around his neck bouncing against his chest as he drags the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yes?"

"Hi, I'm Bella Swan." He frowns slightly as he considers me, and I extend a hand toward him. "We met at the welcome luncheon; I teach English."

His eyes widen in recognition, and he nods quickly as he accepts my proffered hand and gives it a vigorous shake. "Right! Right. Sorry, yes, of course. Edward, please." He releases my hand.

"How's it going so far?" I ask, tilting my chin in the general direction of the gym around us.

He nods again. "Good. Very good. Thanks." A basketball hits him in the shin and he flicks it up with his toe, catching it effortlessly at waist-level before turning his focus to the lines of students ostensibly working on their layups. "Heads up, Jacob!" he calls as he bounce-passes the ball to one of the boys near the end of the line in an easy, fluid motion. My mind flashes to Jasper's assertion about soccer players' bodies; Edward Cullen's physique is certainly a marked improvement over his pot-bellied, light-years-past-retirement predecessor. God rest his soul. "Sorry about that," he says, and I drag my mind back to the present.

"No problem," I reply. "I just wanted to reintroduce myself before Thursday."

His brow furrows in confusion again. "Thursday?"

I nod. "The sexual health education class?" He flushes slightly, and I instantly hope for his sake that he can curb that response before next week; teenagers can be ruthless, and if they think he's embarrassed, they'll have him for breakfast. "Principal Taylor asks me to sit in each year to address any questions the female students might have."

I leave out the fact that it's a state requirement to have both a male and a female teacher present for this part of the health curriculum; I don't want to sound like a snotty, by-the-book know-it-all.

"Of course, yes. Sorry, I'm still catching up on where we are in the school year," he says, and his flush has disappeared, replaced by an apologetic smile.

"I can only imagine. Coming in mid-year must be tough."

He chuckles. "It definitely has its challenges; plus, you should see the so-called 'filing system' Coach Clapp left behind. I don't think the man had any references published after 1972 in his office."

I shudder to think what _those _sex ed pamphlets look like. "I can only imagine. Well, I wasn't sure if you wanted to go over the lesson plan ahead of time, or if you just wanted me to show up on Thursday to be on hand as a back-up."

He scratches his neck as his eyes flicker to his students. "Use the backboard, Eric!" he bellows before turning back to me. "Sorry."

I dismiss his apology with a wave, feeling suddenly awkward as I shift my weight. "No, I'm sorry to interrupt your class. We can talk about this later; I just… had a free period."

"No, no, don't apologize. I just…" He glances toward the court again, frowning slightly. "Their layups are _abysmal_." He looks genuinely distraught by this fact, and I laugh, following his gaze to the line of ninth-graders I generally only see half-hidden by dog-eared copies of _To Kill a Mockingbird_. While I know very little about basketball, the lack of general coordination – forget about actual athleticism – of many of the students is obvious.

"Looks that way," I agree and he smiles.

"But yes, I'd love to go over the lesson plans with you. When do you have lunch?"

"Fourth period," I reply, feeling at that moment like we're actually _in_ high school. "But I'm giving a make-up test today. I could come back after school?"

He shakes his head. "Soccer practice," he replies. I opt not to mention that I should know this because I routinely spend a not-entirely-insignificant chunk of my after-school hour glancing through my classroom window at regular intervals to watch him juggle a soccer ball while a gaggle of teenage boys run warm-up laps. "But how about tomorrow? We could do lunch in my office." He grimaces as he gestures to the small office off the gym. "If you don't mind complete chaos."

"I don't mind complete chaos at all," I assure him, and he gives me a polite smile and a tight nod. Maybe Jasper was right; he does seem a little uptight.

"Great." He opens his mouth to say something more but instead lunges suddenly toward me, one arm extended past my shoulder. I instinctively flinch, and a split second later hear the smack of a ball in the space near my right ear; I realize as he straightens again and steps back that the hot new PE teacher has likely just saved me from a probable concussion. "See?" he says, as I hear the deflected projectile bouncing away from where we stand. "Abysmal."

Glancing over my shoulder, I see Eric Yorkie sheepishly retrieving the ball. "Yeah. I think that's my cue. See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he agrees, turning back to the so-called basketball lesson. "You have to _jump_, Tyler!" he bellows as I push open the gym doors and retreat to safety.

That afternoon I once again find myself glancing periodically through the window of my classroom toward the soccer practice field, where Edward is juggling a soccer ball with seemingly no effort. The black Adidas warm-up suit he's wearing cuts a stark line against the green and gray horizon, and I can see the three white stripes of his cleats each time he flicks the ball upward. Absently I begin counting, and I'm up to forty-three when my shoulder starts to ache; I realize that I've paused midway through erasing the chalkboard.

"Busted," I hear from the direction of the door, and I spin in my small heels to see Angela's head poking into the room, her hand gripping the doorframe. "That doesn't look like lesson planning, if you ask me," she says lightly, a teasing smile in place. "Something interesting going on outside, Bella?"

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, Ang."

"Hey. Can I borrow your bust of the Bard? Facial drawing unit starts tomorrow and I need a model."

"You got it," I say, nodding toward the small bookshelf against the far wall, atop which sits the faux-marble bust of William Shakespeare. "Take good care of him; he represents my first and most long-lasting relationship with a man."

I can hear her snicker as she crosses the classroom to retrieve it. "I'm fighting the urge to reiterate all of the ways in which Shakespeare is wildly overrated."

"Bite your tongue," I mock-hiss, returning the chalkboard eraser to its tray and dusting my hands together.

She grins, propping the bust against her hip. "I'll take good care of him," she vows in faux solemnity, and I nod.

"See to it that you do."

She pauses beside the window and peeks out toward the field; despite the fact that she knows exactly what I was gazing at, I still feel a little bit like the proverbial cookie-jar kid. "I don't entirely disagree with Jessica," she says after a moment, turning to face me with one eyebrow cocked. "Youuu lucky witch."

I note the edit and grin; Angela's a minister's kid through and through, and while she can switch it off and have fun over a round of margaritas, she is unfailingly appropriate during school hours. I change the subject. "Still want to go and see _The Shop Around the Corner_ tomorrow night?"

"You bet," she says. "I haven't seen it in ages."

Angela is the only person our age I've come across who shares my admittedly nerdy affection for old black and white movies, particularly those with Jimmy Stewart in them, and she's my first call whenever there's something good showing at the independent film house in Port Angeles. "Awesome," I reply. "Do you mind driving? Buster is making that clunking noise again."

"You bet. Pick you up at six."

"See you then," I say, tidying the piles of papers on my desk and studiously attempting to avoid looking out the window. I almost succeed.

* * *

The forest green t-shirt pulled taut across Edward's shoulders is doing amazing things to his eyes, and I force myself to focus on the printed logo across the chest instead of daydreaming about what might be concealed beneath it. After a moment I give up, dropping my eyes to the Tupperware container of leftover vegetable lo mein I'm holding in my hand and spearing a bamboo shoot with my plastic fork.

"Did you go to Notre Dame?" I ask as he spins in his wheeled desk chair to peruse the shelving unit on the opposite wall.

"My brother did," he replies as he rises and scans the spines of the row of books. I force myself to look at the motivational poster on the wall above my head instead of eyeballing him from behind while I chew. "He was a football player."

"Wow. For the Irish?" I shift on the small plaid loveseat that's been in Coach Clapp's office since I was a student. Ostensibly, it's a place where a student-athlete can sit while he confides in his coach; in reality, it's where the old man used to keep stacks of papers and manila folders. It's also seen better days, as the springs are gone and I have sunk so low into the cushions that I may as well be sitting on the floor.

"Yeah. A kicker. But he blew out his knee sophomore year and never really made it back. Ah! Here it is." He drags a spiral-bound book from the shelf and hands it to me as he returns to his chair and picks up his own plastic fork from his container of salad. "This is the booklet that Coach Clapp used last year for worksheets, according to his lesson plans." I thumb through it, remembering at once how outdated the materials seemed the last time I "assisted" with this part of the health curriculum. While technically still approved by the Washington State Department of Ed, these sheets are obviously not the most up-to-date, and I risk a glance at Edward, who is watching me carefully. His eyes drop to his lunch and he spears a cherry tomato. "Are they wrong?"

I shake my head slowly. "Not wrong, no," I reply, and I suspect from his tone that Edward is someone who doesn't like to do things "wrong." "Just…the State Ed department puts a lot of materials on its website now, and they did a whole assessment over the summer of the sexual health curriculum with findings from last year's test results. I think maybe we could utilize some more up-to-date references this year."

"Okay," he says carefully and accepts the workbook I'm holding out toward him before grabbing the ninth grade health textbook from his desk. "Should we start with the chapter in here?"

"Sure," I say. "Actually, I haven't seen it; that's a new book this year."

He nods and hands me the text. I place my lunch of leftovers on the floor and flip it open to glance at the table of contents before turning to the appropriate chapter. "Do you typically like to assign the textbook reading as homework and then utilize other resources during the class period, or use the text during class?" I ask, flipping through the pages. It's mostly the same as the old book.

"Okay, confession: I've never taught this curriculum before," Edward admits, stabbing at lettuce.

I glance up at him. "Confession: I kind of figured."

"I'm sorry?" he says, his fork hovering above his lunch, blue-green eyes pinning me.

I rest the book on my knees. "You, uh, blushed when I first approached you about it." As the words leave my lips, a pink tinge touches his cheeks and I feel badly for making him uncomfortable in his own office. "Sorry."

He shakes his head. "No, it's fine. It's just. Um." He attempts to stab another tomato but it skids away and he drops his fork with a sigh. "It's a lot of responsibility and…"

I throw him a bone. So to speak. "And you're going to have to say things like 'penis' and 'vagina' in front of a bunch of teenagers?"

"Yes. Exactly. Thank you." Despite the relief in his words, his blush deepens. It's actually kind of endearing.

"A word of advice?"

"Please."

"Do whatever you need to do to keep your discomfort from showing on your face. These kids can be ruthless. Take into consideration their hormones and toss in a couple of visual aids of their reproductive organs and things can get out of hand pretty quickly." He shifts in his chair, and as the soles of his indoor soccer shoes squeak on the linoleum of his office floor, sudden inspiration strikes me. "Okay, how about this: you're a coach. Just…talk to them like they're your soccer team."

He casts a dubious look in my direction. "Like, 'Newton, if you don't stop joking around about the word "scrotum" I'm going to make you run stadiums'?"

A laugh escapes my mouth before I can curb the impulse. "Not exactly. Just…be no-nonsense. Matter-of-fact. They'll respect you for it."

He seems to mull this over for a minute before nodding. "Okay. I can do that."

"Okay. So. It's a four-week curriculum which means eight classes total."

"Right."

"How do you want to break it up?"

"Well, what did you guys do last year?"

I check the lesson plan book that I'd brought with me for this exact purpose and tick down the list. "Anatomy and physiology the first week, human sexuality the second week, reproductive health and sexually transmitted diseases the third week, and family planning and contraception the fourth week."

He nods. "Okay. That sounds good." He retrieves his fork and resumes eating his lunch.

"Great," I say. "I was, uh, thinking though, Coach Clapp had a very…_textbook_ approach to things and didn't really tend to address issues that weren't expressly outlined in the book. I think we should maybe tailor the lessons a little bit more to be on the kids' level." Edward frowns slightly and I hasten to continue. "I mean, the sex education curriculum is pretty strictly governed by the state; I'm not suggesting we go rogue or anything. I just…sometimes I felt like the kids were losing the information in the presentation, and I just feel like we have a responsibility to make sure we're speaking their language. To make sure they really understand the facts."

"That makes sense," Edward says around a mouthful of lettuce. "Can you give me an example?"

"Well, okay, for instance, I think we need to be very clear that 'everything but' doesn't keep you safe from contracting infections."

He swallows. "'Everything but?'"

"Yeah. You know how girls say if they don't go all the way, and they're still technically virgins, then guys can't call them sluts, so they stick to oral and manual stimulation and think they're covered, reputation-wise and disease prevention-wise? I think we need to emphasize the importance of using condoms even for oral sex." I pause as a particularly unpleasant memory hits me. "Apparently there was an episode of the Rainbow Game at one of last year's prom after-parties, and seniors aren't the only ones at those parties. Stories like that have a way of trickling down to the underclassmen."

"The Rainbow Game?" he repeats, confused.

"You've never heard of the Rainbow Game?"

"No."

"It's where, um, a group of girls all wear different shades of lipstick and perform oral sex on a boy and afterward his penis looks like a rainbow."

Edward's cheeks are flaming and he clears his throat. "Jesus," he whispers. "Okay. Good to know." Suddenly, the rest of what I've said catches up with him. "Wait, _high school_ girls are doing this?"

"Edward. Believe me. The longer you teach high school, the less surprised you'll be by these things."

"That's…really sad," he says, and his eyebrows are drawn together in a frown. After a beat, he pushes his salad away and scratches his nose as he leans back in his chair.

"Yeah," I agree. "But information is power. We just have to do everything we can to enable them to make good decisions."

"Right. Okay."

"Okay. So, um. I guess this week we cover the anatomy and physiology stuff. That's pretty straightforward, and it's nothing they haven't seen before."

"Good."

"They'll giggle and stuff when you pull up the diagram of the penis, and one of the boys will probably say something inappropriate, so nip it in the bud right off the bat and the rest of them should get the message."

"Okay."

I offer him a smile. "It'll probably be one of your soccer players, so the threat of running stadiums might work, after all."

He gives me a small smile of his own. "If I were a gambling man, I'd put my money on Newton," he says and I nod in agreement. I have Mike Newton in my English class and he's a good kid, if a bit of a clown.

"Fair assumption."

"And the physiology stuff will probably come with a couple of titters as well; talking about erections and ejaculation is usually good for it." Edward nods as he grabs a pen from his desk and begins twirling it between his long fingers. I force my eyes back to the plan book in front of me. "Next week, human sexuality. One point that was echoed in the state findings over the summer addressed the tendency of teachers to say things like 'husband and wife' or 'girlfriend and boyfriend' instead of 'partners.' They felt it implied a bias toward heterosexual partners and that it wasn't inclusive of people who weren't in committed relationships. So maybe just be sensitive to that."

"That's a really good point," he says, retrieving a clipboard from his desk and jotting down a note. "Are all of these findings online?"

"Yeah. State Ed website."

"Okay. I'll read them over."

"I, um…" Reaching into my bag I pull out a small stack of papers and hand them to him. "I printed them out to read over last night. You can take them. Save a tree."

He chuckles. "Thanks."

"Okay, the third and fourth weeks always tended to overlap a little bit in the past. It's hard to talk about disease prevention without talking about contraception as well, so we kind of found ourselves repeating a lot of information. Then again, I don't think you can drill the importance of condoms into the minds of teenagers too many times."

This time Edward's laugh is full-fledged, and a smile splits my face. "No, I'd imagine you can't," he says, and I close the plan book on my lap and rest my elbows on it. "Well, I'll read over this, and then maybe we can meet again next week to talk about the second unit?"

"Sounds good," I say, picking up my container of Chinese food from the floor. A part of me I'm not willing to acknowledge wants nothing more than to stay in his office for the duration of the lunch hour and talk about something besides the high school sexual health curriculum, but Edward's abandoned salad container has found its way to the trash and the bounce of his knee tells me I've invaded his space for long enough. I rise from the cavernous seat and smooth the front of my skirt. "Okay. See you in class on Thursday."

"Thursday," he replies with a nod, but his focus is already on the stack of papers in front of him, and he doesn't look up as I leave.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. This is just some fun while I work up the courage for some heavy. Sex-Ed-Ward! (Win.)_

_Also, I posted a one-shot entry for the Ho Hey Contest. If you're interested, it can be found here: _

_ s / 8904713 / 1 / Belong_


	2. Chapter 2

**The Practicum**

**Rating:** M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary:** "He's talking about lady parts, and I'm mildly ashamed that my own thoughts are having a hard time adhering to the strictly biological functions of the aforementioned parts."

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA leaves me margin notes like, "Penis gets the same treatment." And she's totally talking about punctuation. Is there anything about that that isn't awesome?

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"That is _still_ one of my favorites," Angela sighs as we step into the crisp March night, the exposed bulbs outside the small theater casting the sidewalk in a warm yellow glow.

"Way better than the remake," I agree, hugging my lightweight jacket around my shoulders and wishing I'd opted for my wool coat instead. Sometimes I let my optimism for spring's arrival cloud my good sense. "Something about the serendipity of it all gets lost in the transition to e-mail."

"Agreed. Although I do enjoy Tom Hanks."

"Can't argue with that. He's probably the closest thing there is to a modern-day Jimmy Stewart."

Angela gives this declaration the serious consideration it deserves before nodding slowly. "I think you might be on to something there."

As is tradition, we make our way to the small café a few doors down from the theater and attempt to shake off the chill of the damp evening as we shuffle up to the counter. Shortly after we have ordered our drinks, we are once again wandering the sidewalk, clutching our paper coffee cups for warmth as we make our way to Angela's car.

"Jasper asked if we could move margaritas back to eight o'clock next week; he has a date," she says, taking a small sip of her latte and licking the foam off her upper lip.

I blow on my tea through the small hole in the plastic lid. "I thought he was swearing off dating for a while."

"I thought so too, but apparently his mother insisted on setting him up with some guy from her law firm."

"I also thought he was swearing off lawyers."

Angela shrugs as she digs her keys out of her oversized patchwork purse. "Hasn't Jasper sworn off everything at one point or another? I think the only time he stuck to his guns was when he swore off women." She hits the keyless entry and we open the car doors, sliding into the seats.

I laugh, placing my tea in the cupholder as I reach for my seat belt. "True story. But you know, maybe he's on to something. If neither of us finds a man in the next decade, we might be made for each other."

She echoes my laugh as her own belt clicks. "Sweet talker. Though I can't say I've ever seen you look at me with quite the same concentration you were giving Edward Cullen through your classroom window."

I roll my eyes as I retrieve my drink and settle into my seat for the drive back to Forks. "He's good looking. Sue me."

"Seriously, Bella. You're going to be getting to know him, right? There isn't exactly a plethora of single, attractive men of desirable dating age in Forks, so what's the harm in seeing if there's something there?"

"You mean besides the fact that it would be eighteen different kinds of awkward if it didn't work out and we still had to work together?"

Angela rolls her eyes as she reverses out of the parking spot. "Please. How much time do you spend in the same wing of the building? I'm pretty sure the gym is about as far as you can get from your classroom."

She has a point, though I opt not to admit it. "I'm about to spend four weeks working with him," I argue halfheartedly, and she shrugs as we pull out of the lot and into the flow of traffic.

"Suit yourself," she says, and the topic of Edward Cullen is blessedly absent from our conversation – if not from my mind – for the remainder of the drive.

As if to prove Angela's point, I don't see Edward at all on Wednesday, and the ever-present rain means soccer practice is moved indoors, so I don't even get to enjoy my daily ogling from the safety of my empty classroom. That evening, after a quick swing by my house to change out of my teacher-clothes, I'm shuffling through my father's front door rather inelegantly; his lock sticks, and the bag of groceries is more cumbersome than it is heavy.

"Hey, Bells," Charlie greets from his recliner, lurching in an awkward attempt to rise and help me.

"Stay put, Dad. I got it." Finally inside, I kick the door closed and drop a kiss on the top of his head as I pass on my way to the kitchen. "I brought stuff for breaded chicken," I toss over my shoulder, and he rumbles his approval as he heaves forward, completely disregarding my command to stay where he is.

A few moments later, he appears in the doorway of the kitchen, pausing momentarily before lowering himself gently into one of the chairs at the table. While his movements aren't completely fluid, the casual observer would probably never guess that this side of five years ago he could barely walk. "How was school today?"

I grin at the carrots I've just started peeling; the way he always says "school" instead of "work" makes me feel like a kid again, and the sentiment is unexpectedly comforting. "It was good," I reply, pulling another carrot from the bag and skinning it over the sink. "The usual. Although I met the new phys ed teacher the other day."

Charlie grunts. "Hear he's got a good soccer team this year," he says. Forks is a bit of an anomaly for an American high school; too small to have a football team, soccer and basketball are the dominant sports about which the local yokels chat over the Forks Diner counter. And, as indicated by Edward's grievance about the poor form of the students' layups, soccer is the one at which the mighty Spartans excel. Sometimes.

"I've heard that too," I reply, slicing the peeled vegetables before dumping them into a saucepan.

"First game's this week, isn't it?"

I frown as I set the vegetables on a burner and wipe my hands on a dishtowel. "I'm actually not sure. Probably soon, though."

"Have to check 'em out," he mumbles somewhat absently, squirming slightly in his chair.

"You okay?" I ask, purposely casual.

He nods. "Yeah. Little sore today."

"Need some meds?"

"Nope. Just need to stand." Five years ago, during a routine traffic stop, Charlie was standing by the driver's side window of the car he'd just pulled over when a drunk driver swiped him and shattered his pelvis in addition to breaking both his legs and fracturing a few of his ribs and vertebrae. It was a long road, but his recovery amazed even his doctors; I attribute it to his stubbornness, which is infinite. Still, there are days when he feels the ache. "You look at that website I e-mailed you?"

I roll my eyes as I lay out the chicken cutlets on the cutting board before me. "Yeah, Dad. Thanks." Some days I curse the day I introduced Charlie to the Internet; similarly, I sometimes regret giving him my e-mail address.

"It's worth checking out, Bells. Looks like a good program."

"It's a great program, but it's not for me."

"How come?" Like I said: infinite stubbornness. This is a discussion we've had a thousand times, always with the same result.

"I'm not going back to school, Dad."

"But you could."

"I could. But I'm not."

"I don't need looking after, Bella."

"That's not why." I press one cutlet after another into the breadcrumbs I've poured into a bowl. "I like my job."

"You wanted to be a college professor."

This is true, so I nod. "I did. But things change. I _like_ teaching high school. I'm happy."

_With my job_, I add silently, and as if he's heard the thought, Charlie huffs from behind me. I know where this is coming from, which is a key reason it doesn't irritate me like it otherwise might. When Charlie got hurt two months after I finished my undergraduate degree, I put off going to graduate school to come home and help him. The guilt at feeling like he derailed my life plan is something he can't seem to shake, and my guilt over his guilt isn't much easier to swallow. Despite my reassurances, he's convinced that I've given up my life dream for him, and it probably doesn't help that as a teenager I despised high school and couldn't wait to get out. That I enjoy teaching it was a surprise to me as much as anyone; the only downside to my job is that it happens to be in Forks, and the social life for a twenty-something in such a small town is limited, to put it mildly.

I line up the cutlets on a baking sheet I've lined with foil and rinse my hands, crossing the kitchen to mock-punch his shoulder. "Lighten up, pops. I'm going to start thinking you're trying to get rid of me, and my cooking's not _that_ bad."

His moustache twitches. "Except when you make that god-awful hippie food," he replies, and I roll my eyes.

"_Health_ food, Dad. It's healthy. You can't live on red meat, you know."

He mimics my eye-roll, and the subject of my career is blessedly dropped.

It isn't until I'm sitting in the overstuffed armchair of my living room later that night that I recall his words, both spoken and unspoken. I wish I could convince Charlie that I enjoy teaching, but I can't say his skepticism is entirely unfounded. As a teenager I made no secret of how deeply I loathed high school in general and Forks in particular. I didn't fit in with my peers, who spent most of their time looking for bad decisions to make, and instead I opted to spend most of my free time with my nose buried in books. When I finally left the perpetual rain of Forks behind and enrolled at Berkeley, a major in English literature was all but a foregone conclusion. It was truly serendipitous that four years later, Charlie's accident happened on the heels of the retirement of one of Forks High School's longtime English teachers, and while I'm the first to admit that I accepted the position begrudgingly, the immediacy with which I took to teaching high school English was a revelation. It has since amazed me how different a place can look from the other side of the fence, and while I would never admit it to anyone else, I sometimes watch the students at Forks and wish with at least half of my heart that I'd spent more of my teenage years actually being a teenager.

I am pulled from my reverie by the shrill and somewhat unfamiliar sound of my landline ringing and I glance at the clock: 9:20. If it's a telemarketer at this hour, I'm going to flip my shit.

"Hello?" I inject as much irritation into my voice as I can muster.

"Um, hello? Is this Bella?" The voice is hesitant, and I feel slightly pleased that my tone was appropriately translated until it registers that the caller asked for me by name – and my nickname at that. Telemarketers who do ask for me by name tend to ask for Isabella.

"Yes?"

"Bella, it's Edward Cullen. I'm…I'm sorry to call so late; I'm only just now realizing the time."

"Oh, it's fine. Sorry. I thought you were a telemarketer."

"Oh." He pauses, and I wait for him to speak again. "Right. Sorry. Um, well, I was just calling because I was looking over the lesson plans again and I realized that the diagrams that we're supposed to use are actually on transparencies and I was wondering where I'm supposed to get an overhead projector. I haven't used one in any of the health classes yet, and I know there isn't one in the room."

"I can bring the one from my room," I offer, even as I come to the realization that I'm going to have to transport it to the first floor. "I don't use it much anyway, so we can just leave it in the room until the end of the unit."

"Oh. Okay, that would be great. Thank you."

"No problem." He's quiet, and I wonder idly how someone so pretty can be so unfailingly awkward. A part of my brain suggests that perhaps it's the whole Sex Ed thing, but something tells me it's just Edward. I hear him clear his throat.

"Okay, great. Sorry again to bother you so late."

I tell him again not to worry about it, and as we disconnect, I wonder if he'd loosen up with a couple of margaritas in his system.

The next morning as I stand before my open closet wrapped in a towel, my damp hair sticking to my neck, I sigh. I can't deny that I'm tempted to wear something attractive, given that I'll be spending an hour of the day with Edward, but the last time I wore a shirt that wasn't a turtleneck or a bulky sweater for this particular part of the curriculum, I had more pubescent boys trying to look down my top than I do on an average day. After another beat of debate, I spot a black turtleneck on the shelf at the top of the closet that I can pair with my gray pencil skirt. Full coverage, and yet ever so slightly form-fitting. Perfect. A blow-dry and a mug of coffee later, I am out the door, pleased that there's no misting rain to negate the work of my hairdryer.

The Washington State high school physical education and health curriculum is laid out in such a way that students have two days of health for every three days of physical education; in the case of the high schoolers, they have PE Monday through Wednesday and health class Thursday and Friday. Which is all by way of saying that Thursday morning is the first time I see Edward Cullen not wearing athletic apparel. Dark slacks sit low on his narrow waist and the sleeves of his crisp blue oxford shirt are rolled up to just beneath his elbows. I wasn't expecting to see him until second period, and certainly not in my own classroom, so when he appears at the threshold of my room, I'm caught off-guard.

"Hey," he says, his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

"Wow, you look nice," I say and immediately curse my incredible lack of tact.

Edward glances down at himself, and I can see that the tips of his ears are pink. God, these kids are going to eat him alive. "Uh, thanks. Yeah, I can't really get away with track pants on days when I'm not hurling dodge balls at teenagers."

A relieved laugh escapes my lips. "Right. I'm jealous; there are days I'd give anything to come to work in yoga pants. Let alone hurl projectiles at my students."

His eyes travel up and down my form, and his lips twist. "Well, you look nice as well, but that's nothing new; you always look nice." I feel my eyebrows jump and he looks away, scratching his chin. "I, um, realized this morning that your classroom was on the second floor." Off my frown, he gestures toward the back corner of my room, where the overhead projector sits with its power cord looped over the arm. "I didn't think about that last night when you offered your projector. I thought you might need a hand getting it downstairs."

"Oh! Yes. Thanks, that'd be great." Edward winds his way between the desks and toward the projector, which he drags away from the wall and pushes back toward the door. "The service elevator is at the other end of this hallway," I say, and he nods.

"Lead the way."

I'm mildly disappointed to be walking in front of him, bent as he is over the cart that holds the projector; between his posture and the fit of his slacks, walking behind him would probably have been the highlight of my week. I force the thoughts away as I nod and smile and return the greetings of the students who have begun to loiter in the hallways, leaning against lockers and walls. I spot Jasper walking toward us, his curly hair damp and his trademark tweed jacket with elbow patches unbuttoned. Despite endless ribbing about his buying in to the math nerd stereotype, Jasper refuses to part with that coat. It isn't until he gets closer that I see one of my students, Alice Brandon, bouncing along beside him, chattering nonstop and gesturing animatedly with her hands. I stifle a smirk and Jasper spies me through the crowd; at my look, he rolls his eyes. Alice has a crush of epic proportions on Jasper and has made no secret of it, seeking him out for tutoring despite the fact that she's a straight-A student in every subject including math.

"Mr. Whitlock," I greet him as we pass, and he nods.

"Ms. Swan."

"Oh, hi, Ms. Swan!" Alice beams up at me. "We're starting _A Farewell to Arms_ today, right?"

"We sure are," I confirm, nodding, and she returns her focus to Jasper.

"I just love Hemingway. So romantic."

"Actually, Hemingway was an alcoholic, misogynistic cynic, and _A Farewell to Arms_ was a direct contradiction to people's tendency to romanticize the war," comes a voice from behind me, and I don't miss Jasper's eyebrows climbing as I spin to stare at Edward. He meets my eyes and shrugs. "What? It's true."

I know it's true, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm slightly stunned.

"Jeez, Mr. Cullen, way to be a buzzkill," Alice huffs. Before she can refocus on Jasper, Rosalie Hale appears beside her and loops her arm through Alice's.

"Come on, Alice. I need your notes from chem. Hello, teacher-types." She offers the three of us a half-wave before dragging Alice up the hallway in the opposite direction.

"Bye, Mr. Whitlock!" Alice half-yells over the escalating hum of the students, and Jasper sighs.

"She's relentless," I say, grinning; Alice's single-minded focus on Jasper is a source of endless amusement for me, as well as for Angela and Jessica.

"You're telling me," he mutters, nodding to Edward in a man-greeting that is apparently typical of gay and straight men alike. "Morning."

"Morning," Edward replies, and I glance between them before nodding my head toward the end of the hall.

"We're just taking the projector down to the health room," I tell him for absolutely no reason other than I have the compunction to fill awkward silences with inane chatter. I wonder idly if there's a support group for that.

"Okay," Jasper says. "Have fun with that." He nods again as he resumes his walk up the hallway, and I once again lead Edward and the projector cart through the crowd. When we reach the service elevator, I punch the button and Edward straightens, arching his back. I try not to notice the way his dress shirt pulls against his broad shoulders; I fail spectacularly.

"Math, right?" he says.

"What?"

"Jasper. Math teacher, right?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry, I should have introduced you."

"No, no, we met at the luncheon. I just met a lot of people in one day; I've been trying to get everyone straight."

"Right. Well, yeah, Jasper teaches math."

He nods and the elevator dings; I attempt to help him navigate the cart into the small car, but he shakes his head. "Look out, I don't want to jam your fingers." I step back and hold the doors open as he wrestles it inside and straightens, nodding. "Thanks. I'll, uh, see you second period."

"Okay," I say, nodding as the doors slide closed.

* * *

"All right, everybody, settle down and find a seat, please." Edward dumps a small stack of books atop the wooden desk at the front of the room and tugs absently at his earlobe as he glances around at the group of teenagers settling into their desks. _Show no fear_, I will him silently, and as if he's heard my silent support, his eyes lift to mine. I give him an encouraging nod.

"Yo, Coach, can we use _Playboy_ instead of those lame-ass diagrams? I think you'll agree it's much more accurate." Mike's voice is followed by the expected wave of whispers and hushed laughs, and a pleased smile twists his lips as the rest of the class watches Edward for a reaction. He doesn't disappoint.

"Congratulations, Newton, you just scored yourself a timed mile before practice today," Edward says without looking up, sliding the top book off the stack and retrieving a manila folder from beneath it. He glances at me, eyebrow cocked, and I hide a smile; if he were a betting man, Edward would have just come into some money. I hear Mike groan and a few of his classmates snicker. "Okay everyone, I trust the rest of you can handle this like adults. Those of you who can't, we'll find something fun for you to do."

As he directs the students to retrieve their textbooks and turn to the appropriate page, I settle into the seat beside the desk, the teacher's text open on my lap. I watch Edward's fingers slide a transparency from the folder and onto the top of the projector before flipping the switch; immediately, a diagram of the female reproductive system is cast on the screen at the front of the room.

"You all lived here once upon a time," Edward says immediately, and any murmurs and hushed whispers are halted as the class stares at him. I'm fairly certain my own expression mirrors theirs; that definitely wasn't in the lesson plan. He looks around at the sea of faces and nods once. "Biology. That's what we're talking about today, so let's leave all of the other stuff at the door, okay? We'll get to it soon enough." He looks over his shoulder at the screen. "The female reproductive system." From there he launches into identifying the various parts, and as I watch him, I'm gob-smacked. Gone is the blushing, awkward, slightly unsure rookie teacher I spoke to in his office at the start of the week. This version of Edward is confident, no-nonsense, and professional. And, I'm not ashamed to admit – at least to myself – insanely attractive. He's also talking about lady parts, and I'm mildly ashamed that my own thoughts are having a hard time adhering to the strictly biological functions of the aforementioned parts. The girls in the class squirm slightly when he starts detailing the biological process of menstruation and cycles, and I remember how intensely private I felt about all of that stuff when I was their age. A quick glance around shows that the boys don't feel much more at-ease; in fact, Edward seems to be more relaxed than anyone in the room, myself included.

"The male reproductive system," he says smoothly, replacing one transparency with another, and I don't miss the warning glance he tosses in Mike Newton's general direction. His body is angled slightly toward me as he ticks off the labeled parts of the illustration; the word "penis" falls effortlessly from his lips, and before I can catch myself, I find my eyes darting from his face to the front of his dark slacks. My face burns as I look hurriedly away, glancing down at the book in my lap as I will my cheeks to cool. All that time I spent worrying about Edward's visible discomfort, and _I'm_ blushing like a schoolgirl. When I am composed enough to look back up, he is sliding the sheet from the projector, but he's looking at me oddly; I offer him an encouraging smile and his lips twitch as he moves on to detailing the production of sperm and semen. Amazingly, the students handle the subject matter like adults, and before I know it, the hour is up. I realize as textbooks and notebooks are closed and the bell rings that I haven't said a word during the entire class. Once all of the students have filed out of the room, I stand, closing the teacher's book and placing it beside his pile of things on the desk.

"Edward, that went really, really well. Seriously. Coach Clapp was teaching this lesson for decades, and in all the times I sat in, I never saw him have complete control over the class like that."

"Thanks," he says, sliding his pen behind his ear. "Your advice about the coach-talk actually helped."

"I'm glad," I say, even though I doubt my pointers had anything to do with it. "Though he was a coach as well, and he still couldn't nail the menstruation stuff like you just did."

Aaaaand he's blushing again. What the hell?

"Tomorrow, then?" he says, shuffling his feet and tucking his stack of books under his arm.

I nod. "Tomorrow."

That afternoon, I don't even pretend not to be looking out my window, and I can't fight the smile that comes as I watch Mike Newton running his timed mile.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading, and thanks for the lovely reviews for Chapter 1. Please know that I cherish every word of your feedback. xo Coming up in Chapter 3: a little insight into the mystery that is this adorkably awkward Edward._

_I was sort of stunned yet pleasantly surprised by the number of people who know the "Reproduction" song from _Grease 2. _The song is every bit as awesomely horrific as the movie itself; if you YouTube it…well, be prepared._


	3. Chapter 3

**The Practicum **

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"The…taking you home comment. I didn't mean it the way it sounded, I swear."

**Acknowledgement: **HollettLA betas while she's on vacation. There's absolutely no doubt I've hit the beta-jackpot.

* * *

_Many of you conveyed in your reviews that you are/were teachers, or are married to people who are/were teachers. This chapter's for you; you have one of if not THE most important jobs in the world. __Thank you for the special work you do. xo_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Friday morning, I'm taking my life in my hands. It's raining, and I'm wearing the highest pair of heels I own. I justify this decision to myself with the argument that the slacks I'm wearing are a touch on the long side and I don't want the hems to get muddy. In reality, I remember that the last time I wore them Jasper confided that they did "amazing things to my ass." End quote.

As I sit in the chair beside the teacher's desk in the health classroom, I try not to submit to the self-ridicule I generally reserve for moments like this. It's entirely out of character for me to go out of my way to impress a man this way, but something about Edward Cullen is drawing me in. I suspect it's the trifecta of his teaching style, his spot-on one-line analysis of Hemingway, and his ability to juggle a soccer ball – not to mention the package those three things are wrapped up in – that is resulting in this complete disregard for my own safety. There's also something intriguing about his complete composure, the tight rein he seems to have on himself at all times, and a curious part of me wants to see if I can affect him, even a little bit. Or, at the very least, if I can figure him out.

"Morning." Edward's voice draws me from my silent exploration of my own motives and I smile.

"Morning."

He dumps the pile of books on the desk and holds up a manila folder. "I printed up the diagrams without the labels as a sort of non-graded pop quiz. Thought we could start there."

"Sounds good." I hold out a hand. "Want me to pass them out? Make myself useful?"

He frowns, ignoring my hand altogether. "I'm sorry," he says haltingly, cupping the back of his neck in a gesture I'm coming to learn is a nervous tic. "I'm dominating the teaching."

I dismiss this with a wave and quick shake of my head. "Edward, don't be ridiculous. This is _your_ class; you're supposed to dominate it. I'm just here as a backup. That was a compliment."

"Oh." He visibly relaxes. "Well then, thank you."

"You're welcome."

God, he's so _awkward._ I make my way up and down the aisles, putting a worksheet on each desk as students slowly filter in. By the time I'm done, I can hear the groans and complaints about an unannounced pop quiz.

"Calm down, everyone, it's not for a grade. It's just to see if you were paying attention." When the bell rings and the students are settled in their desks, Edward gives them quick instructions to complete the worksheet and the room falls into relative silence, save the occasional shift of a student in a desk and the steady hum of the heating unit beneath the windows. He comes to stand beside me behind the desk, and my eyes flick over his outfit without my permission: black slacks and a forest green dress shirt, sleeves once again rolled up his forearms, with a black, green, and silver striped tie. It's actually kind of a tragedy that this man spends the majority of his workdays in athletic apparel. "So," he says, leaning into me, his voice low. "Today we have that video to show." I'm attempting to focus on his words, but my skin is prickling in awareness of his proximity.

"Okay," I say, and as I breathe in, his scent wafts over me: detergent and deodorant and _man_. When he speaks again, I detect traces of peppermint, and I wonder absently if it's toothpaste or gum.

"That should take up most of the period," he continues, mercifully oblivious to my olfactory almost-orgasm.

"Okay," I say again, and he nods as he moves to the antiquated TV/VCR combo and begins punching buttons, a frown deepening on his face in degrees. I rise from my post and lean in over his shoulder. "This thing is ancient," I offer in commiseration. "Need a hand?"

"Sure," he says absently. "I haven't had to use a VCR in close to a decade."

I laugh softly, mindful of the students still working on their assignment, as I bend over the machine to check that the power cords are plugged into the appropriate outlets. Edward straightens, and as he makes a move to step around me, I feel his foot catch on my ankle and am instantly aware of the warmth of his hands on my hips as he attempts to steady himself. Nearly as quickly as they appeared, his hands are gone, and I hear him mumble a quick "sorry" before he moves away from me. I will my heart rate to return to its normal rhythm as I set up the video and turn on the TV, which buzzes to life with a bright blue screen.

"Okay," I say to Edward, who is sitting behind the teacher's desk. "All set." The noise level in the room has risen to a level indicating that the majority of students are done with their assigned task, and I tilt my head toward the group. "Want me to collect the papers?"

"Great. Thanks." He rises from his chair and cracks his knuckles as he faces the class. "Okay guys, video today," he starts as I make my way up and down the aisles. "I hope I don't need to reiterate my warning from last class; let's handle this like the adults you guys purport yourselves to be, okay? Newton, how'd that time mile treat you yesterday?"

"Sucked," Mike grumbles, and his classmates snicker.

Edward nods. "I'm here for two hours after school anyway, guys, so anyone else looking to boost his or her physical fitness is welcome to join me. Any untoward comments, and I'll be thrilled to have your company." He makes his way to the door and flicks the light switch, throwing the room into relative darkness illuminated only by the blue glow coming from the screen. I place the stack of worksheets on the corner of the desk and settle into the chair beside it, watching shamelessly as Edward bends forward slightly at the waist to press play. Finally he settles into the desk chair beside me, and we watch the informational video that has been equal parts educating and embarrassing teenagers for years.

As we sit in the darkness, I try to analyze the apparently involuntary response I have to Edward Cullen; I don't think I've ever had such an immediately visceral reaction to a man before. Never have I spent class time ogling a fellow teacher, nor have I looked forward to my after-school planning hour to watch high school soccer practice. Granted, in years past, both of those scenarios have involved Coach Clapp who, while a nice enough guy, was never what anyone would even laughingly refer to as eye candy. I try to drag my brain back to the video in case I find myself needing to answer any of the girls' questions, but really, I probably know more than this video's supposedly teaching them, and I can't stop my mind from focusing on the man beside me instead of the glowing screen before me. Who _is_ Edward Cullen, anyway?

Beyond the fact that he's Coach Clapp's mid-year replacement and that he's a former soccer player and that this is his first teaching job, I know next to nothing, with the obvious exception of the facts that he's quick to blush, can juggle a soccer ball upward of a hundred times, and that he doesn't wear cologne. Oh, and that he's never played the Rainbow Game, which is an irrefutable plus. I can't deny that I want to know more. I want to know where he's from, why he came to Forks, why he acts more like a virgin than a ridiculously good-looking former athlete has any business acting. I want to know if he really lost Jessica's phone number, or if he chose not to call it, and if that's the case, I want to know why. Suddenly it hits me that maybe he would have preferred Jasper's number, and I don't realize I'm frowning at the television until Edward's knee bumps mine.

"Hey." I turn to look at him, and there's a similar frown on his own face. "You okay?" he whispers.

I nod. "Yeah." I gesture toward the TV. "This is just…really crappy cinematography."

He snickers once and then presses his lips together before returning his focus to the television, but his eyes are still laughing and, ridiculously, it makes me want to tell him a joke to see him laugh again. Instead, I force myself to at least pretend to be a mature educator instead of a horny single educator and direct all of my attention to the screen. Once the video is over and our students have filed out of the classroom amid giggles and jokes about the admittedly outdated visual aids, I watch as Edward closes his lesson plan book while I rise from my chair. As he slides the completed worksheets into a folder on top of his books, I bite the bullet. "So a few of the other teachers and I have a standing weekly tradition of going out for margaritas and Mexican food on Friday nights. It's sort of our attempt to create a social life in a small town. Anyway, I wanted to extend the invitation."

He straightens and hoists his books onto his hip with one hand while burying the other in his pocket. "Really? That's, uh, really nice. I have a game tonight, though."

"That's okay; we usually go after the game." The sudden thought strikes me that perhaps that was his attempt at turning down the invitation. "But no pressure. You're welcome to come if you feel like it. It's usually me, Jasper, Angela Weber, and Jessica Stanley."

He shifts his weight and resituates the books under his arm. "Okay. Well, thanks."

"No problem." I feel suddenly exposed and embarrassed and I nod. "Well, good luck tonight."

"Thanks," he says again, but his response is nearly lost as I slip out the door.

* * *

When I pick Charlie up for the game that evening, the air is thick with moisture and the temperature is in the typically in-between range of early spring, with cool winds cutting through otherwise warm, damp air. I've opted for my favorite jeans and a long-sleeved thermal with a quilted vest on top; my dad is wearing his signature blue jeans and the plaid coat that has become his go-to since he decided that wearing his police-issued leather bomber was inappropriate, given his forced retirement. Anywhere else in the country, people would probably be dressed for rain; in Forks, unless it's a steady downpour, people generally tend to pretend like they're not getting damp. "Hey, Dad," I greet as he slides into the passenger seat of my vintage truck. "I brought your thermos," I add, gesturing toward the bag on the bench seat between us, and he nods.

"Coffee?"

"Hot chocolate," I correct, and he fights a small smile. While he still pretends to be the gruff, rough-around-the-edges chief of police, underneath it all my dad is a mush, and while he subsisted for years on the battery acid-like coffee at the police station, I know he has a soft spot he would never admit to for creature comforts.

"Big one tonight," he says as he settles against the cracked leather upholstery of my truck's interior, and my mind flies immediately – and unfortunately – to Edward and the male anatomy diagram he'd slid onto the overhead projector the day before. So now, in addition to making me a borderline stalker, he's also made me a pervert. Awesome.

"Yeah," I say, forcibly redirecting my mind to soccer. "I can't believe we're playing Montesano for the first game of the season."

As I check my blind spot, I see Charlie nod in my peripheral vision. "Good test for the boys, though." Montesano High School is Forks High's chief rival and is more often than not the biggest challenge of the season. Last year the Spartans went eleven and one, with their sole loss being to the very team they're up against tonight. Charlie launches into a position-by-position dissection of the Forks roster, and I relax into the comfortably familiar cadence of my dad's voice, grateful that he seems to need little to no input from me, save the occasional murmur of agreement.

When we pull into the school parking lot, I am hard-pressed to find a space, and Charlie refuses my offer to drop him off at the gate. I finally find a spot at the far corner of the lot and recognize Jasper's car a few spaces down. I hope he's saved us some space in the bleachers; judging from the volume of cars, the stands are probably about full. The bright halogen glow of the stadium lights throws everything into harsh glare and makes the field hazy as it filters through the fine evening mist. A quick flash of my faculty ID at the gate is enough to grant me free admission, and Charlie's status as a local legend does the same for him, so we pass through with a quick hello to Shelly Cope; I note, as always, that her eyes light up when she spots my dad, and as we walk away I arch a taunting brow, which he chooses to ignore. As he said once before when I pointed out her obvious fondness for him, "She's nearly old enough to be my mother, Bells. And I may have the hips of an old man, but that doesn't mean I'm going to go there." I scan the home team's side of the bleachers quickly, picking through the sea of navy blue and gold sweatshirts and streamers to spot Jasper's blond head sitting beside Angela's contrasting dark one. Leaning in to Charlie, I point them out; he gives me a short nod before indicating to the far end of the bleachers and the small spot of grass where he usually stands with Billy Black.

"I'm going to find Billy," he says. "Jake's first game tonight."

"I'll come find you at halftime," I say, shaking the thermos at him in reminder.

He grins as we part ways and I pick my way carefully up the bleacher stairs; thank God I'm back in my trusty hiking boots and not in those torture-as-footwear devices I crammed my feet into all day. Greeting Angela and Jasper, I situate myself on the square of metal beside them and hold up my thermos. "I brought refreshments," I say, stowing it beneath me and glancing out toward the field where the team is finishing its warm-up routine. "How we looking?"

Jasper shrugs. "Too early to tell," he says, tilting his chin toward the goal. "Though Jacob is a beast in that goal." True enough, Jacob Black – who I've known since he was in diapers – grew considerably over the summer and as a sophomore has already secured his position as the starting goalkeeper. Not only can he just about touch the crossbar without jumping, his agility would undoubtedly make him the first choice even if he weren't built like the Terminator. I watch for a few moments as he leaps from side to side between the goalposts, blocking shot after shot until my eyes scan the field and fall on Edward, clad once again in a black Adidas warm-up suit and standing with his arms folded across his chest, watching his players drill shots on goal. I see him point every few minutes, making various last-minute coaching points to his players, and a few times I even see him mimic a posture or a technique. Soon enough, a whistle sounds and the warm-up period is over; following a meeting of the team captains and the playing of the national anthem, the first string takes the field and the battle begins.

In the early minutes, the game is back and forth, with each team managing to get off a few shots on goal and each committing a few fouls as the players jockey for dominance on the wet turf. My eyes find Edward with surprising frequency, and I find myself watching him as much as the game: the way he paces up and down the sideline, wearing a muddy track in the strip of grass; the way he points out players to mark; the way he grips his hair in frustration when his own players miss a shot or the opposing team strikes a little too close for comfort. Perhaps most appealing is his unwaveringly positive coaching style: he regularly praises his kids even when things don't work out with comments like "Good idea, just make it a better pass next time," or "That's a great ball, just put a little more angle on it." I watch as he makes substitutions, and whenever a kid steps off the field, he bumps his fist and claps him on the shoulder. For their part, the kids seem to genuinely respond to him and to heed his advice.

By halftime, despite the still scoreless tie, the Forks fans are energized and optimistic, chatting about Jacob's few stellar saves and the numerous opportunities that the offense has had already. When I find Charlie and Billy hovering near the corner of the bleachers, they're analyzing the defensive formation.

"I'm impressed that he's teaching these kids the flat-back four," Charlie says, his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he rocks on his heels. "Seems to be giving the Montesano forwards a bit of a puzzle to work out."

"Jake likes it," Billy agrees. "Says it really sorts out the marking in the back, which makes his life easier." He trails off as he sees me approaching, thermos in hand. "Well hey there, Bella. Long time, no see."

"Hey, Billy," I return, giving him a peck on the cheek. "Your son's a regular Great Wall of China out there."

"Taught him everything he knows," he says with a wink before nodding down to the thermos in my hand. "Hot chocolate?"

"You know it," I reply, fishing out the disposable coffee cups I stashed in my purse. "And I was thinking of you when I packed it," I add, unearthing a miniature bag of tiny marshmallows, and his dark eyes gleam as he smiles.

"You're a saint." I hand them each a cup and pour, joining their conversation about the game and adding my input where I can, despite my general lack of knowledge of the finer points of soccer. When the referee's whistle signals the end of the halftime break, I tilt my head back toward the bleachers, and Charlie nods as they both thank me for the cocoa. Once I'm resettled next to Jasper and Angela and the game has picked back up, Angela leans across Jasper.

"So? How did it go?"

I frown in confusion as my mind flits to Charlie and Billy. "What? How did what go?"

"Your health classes this week with Coach Cullen," she clarifies, her eyebrows hitching suggestively behind the frames of her glasses when she says "Coach Cullen."

I chuckle. "It went fine. He's a really good teacher," I add, feeling the inexplicable urge to build Edward up. "He handled it way better than Clapper ever did."

"More recent experience, maybe," Jasper guesses, and the possibility unexpectedly hits a nerve. "Clapper probably hadn't seen action in decades when he was teaching that class."

"Maybe. Though I did have to explain to him what the Rainbow Game is."

Angela's eyebrows have stopped hitching and are now around her hairline, and Jasper is wearing a similar expression. "You did _what?_" The people in front of us, whom I'm able to identify as Tyler Crowley's parents when they turn to glance at us in the wake of Angela's screech, straighten slightly and I lower my voice.

"I was making a point about talking to them on their level," I defend, and Jasper chuckles.

"Throwing the curriculum out the window, huh, Swan?"

"Okay, stop, I'm just…" I take a sip of hot chocolate while I attempt to regain my composure. "He seems really nice, and he did a really good job with the lesson plans. I invited him out with us tonight."

"Oh?" Jasper is the master of saying things without saying them.

"Shut up, Whitlock, or I'll give Alice Brandon your home number."

"You wouldn't dare," he mutters, though a small crease of concern appears between his eyebrows, and he mercifully stops teasing me.

"He probably won't even come," I say, returning my focus to the field, and Angela can't resist the bait.

"You sound pretty disappointed by that possibility."

I sigh and glance at her before gesturing to the packed bleachers around us. "Can we drop this for now, please? Ears."

She nods quickly, glancing around us a split second before the crowd starts to scream. My head snaps back to see the field, where Ben Cheney is on a breakaway toward the goal. The crowd is on its feet, yelling and screaming at him to shoot it; Ben is the picture of poise as he approaches the goalkeeper at a dead sprint and plants his left foot before deftly striking the ball with his right, drilling it neatly into the far corner of the net. The Forks High fans erupt in cheers, and I grin at Jasper and Angela before finding Edward, who is bouncing up and down on his toes in front of his bench and pumping his fist in the air before turning and bumping fists with all of the kids sitting on the bench. He returns to his track along the sideline, clapping his hands together and yelling something to Mike Newton, who is standing in the middle of the field waiting for the kickoff.

"Hell of a goal," Jasper says, and I nod in agreement as the game restarts. The last twenty minutes are what Charlie would refer to as an "absolute bloodbath," with the Montesano players getting increasingly desperate to score and the Forks players growing increasingly frantic to prevent them from doing so. Jacob Black has a few clutch saves, and Tyler Crowley hits a shot off the crossbar that just about sends a few fans into cardiac arrest. The grass that used to be along the sideline is mud where Edward has been pacing back and forth for nearly ninety minutes, and his copper hair is glowing beneath the bright stadium lights, a violent mess of strands where his hands have run through it with each heart-stopping play. With two minutes to go, Ben Cheney is fouled just inside the eighteen-yard box, and when the referee makes the gesture to play on I think Edward is going to become unhinged. He jumps up and down and points toward the penalty kick spot; I can hear him yelling something at the ref about maintaining control of the game, and the referee pointedly ignores him.

I've never particularly cared that much about athletics at Forks High School, but in the last sixty seconds of the Forks/Montesano game, there are moments when I think my heart might beat right out of my chest. When the final whistle sounds, I let out an exhale that leaves my body feeling used and deflated on the metal bleacher seat.

"Jesus, that was a good game," Jasper says, and his posture and expression probably mirror my own.

"Seriously," I agree, and Angela nods in silent concurrence. We sit for a few moments watching the players shake hands before I spy Charlie hovering at the foot of the bleacher steps. "Okay, see you guys at Plaza in thirty? Gotta get the old man home." They both make noises of assent, and as I make my way down the bleachers, I notice Edward packing soccer balls into an enormous mesh bag on the sideline while his players jog across the field and back to cool down. I grab Charlie's elbow and nod my head in Edward's direction. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the coach," I say, and my father doesn't turn down the opportunity.

At our approach, Edward looks up; he is flushed and smiling, his damp hair sticking to the nape of his neck and his temples, and it is the most relaxed and happy I have ever seen him. My mind flashes unbidden to another scenario in which I could see him sweaty and content, but I force the thought away.

"Congratulations," I offer, and his grin widens.

"Yeah, thanks," he replies, his green eyes as bright as the grass beneath the stadium lights. "That was a big win for us."

I nod. "Edward this is my dad, Charlie Swan. Dad, Edward Cullen," I introduce.

"Nice to meet you sir," Edward says, extending his hand toward my dad.

Charlie accepts the handshake. "Good team you've got this year," he offers, and Edward nods again.

"We're excited about the season," he says, tying the drawstrings on the ball bag before letting it settle at his feet. We stand in silence for a few awkward moments before I hear Charlie clear his throat beside me.

"Well, good to meet you," he says, turning to head for the parking lot.

"See you next week," I say to Edward as I turn to follow my dad.

"Hey, Bella." I feel his hand in the crook of my elbow, and a small thrill rockets through me as I turn. "I, um…I was wondering if the offer still stands. For tonight. I wouldn't mind celebrating, and I don't really know anyone in town yet."

"Of course!" I reply, trying to tamp down on the grin that desperately wants to be set free. "I'm meeting everyone at Plaza Taqueria in half an hour. Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah. Over on Calawah, right?" I nod, and he does the same. "Okay. I'll see you there."

* * *

Edward in jeans is nearly as arresting as Edward in slacks, and the black crewneck sweater he's wearing makes him look like he just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.

"Hey," he says as he draws to a halt beside the booth. His hair is still damp, though the scents wafting off his skin tell me that it's the result of a shower and not sweat or rain. I gesture toward the vacant bench seat across from me.

"Hey, Coach. Grab a seat." He does as ordered, sliding across the fake leather upholstery and dropping his car keys on the table. A waitress appears almost instantly, and he orders a Dos Equis after eyeballing my margarita.

"No tequila for you?" I ask once she's gone, and he shakes his head with a small smile.

"Definitely not," he replies. "A beer is enough of an indulgence for me; one of those and you'd have to take my keys away and drive me home."

"I could take you home," I say, and while I intended it as a friendly offer of a designated driver, it comes out sounding like something else entirely. Judging from his expression, Edward doesn't miss the innuendo at all, and we're reduced to staring at each other in mutually embarrassed silence until Angela appears at the end of the booth.

"Hey, Edward! Great game tonight!" She slips in beside me and dumps her bag to the floor beneath the table.

"Thanks," he says, straightening slightly. "The guys played really well."

"I can't believe the ref hosed you out of that PK," Jasper adds as he appears and slides in next to Edward. "That was a bullshit non-call."

"Tell me about it," Edward grumbles, thanking the waitress as she slides his bottle across the table to him. "I hope we don't have him for too many games this year; I think I made an enemy out of him tonight."

Jasper chuckles. "Don't sweat it too much. Clapper was the most hated coach in the league; you're undoubtedly the lesser of two evils in the referees' books."

Edward smiles. "Good to know," he says, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a pull as Jasper orders his own beer and Angela requests a margarita.

"Where's Jess?" I ask once the waitress disappears, and Angela smirks.

"Hot date," she says, which is code for the same booty-call Jess has been entertaining for nearly a year now. Why she doesn't just date the guy is beyond me, though I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the first time Jessica tried to talk to him about science, he thought she was saying "Adams" instead of "atoms" and launched into a ten-minute diatribe about the best domestic beer brands. They're not exactly a match made in heaven in terms of their interests, but something keeps her going back.

"You guys want apps?" Jasper asks, eyes flicking out of habit over the menu that we've all memorized.

"Sure," I say, glancing at Edward. "They give you chips and salsa, but we usually order a couple of appetizers to split before doing entrees."

He nods. "Sounds good."

"What do you like?" Jasper asks him, looking at him over the menu, and Edward shrugs.

"I don't often eat red meat, but other than that, I'm flexible."

Jasper nods. "That's cool. Angela doesn't eat beef, either."

Angela, for her part, chuckles. "Thank _God_ Jessica isn't here," she says, taking a slurp of her just-arrived drink. "She would have knocked that one out of the park."

Jasper laughs. "True. She could have triple-whammied us; a three-for-one." His eyes flick to Edward. "Unless there's something unknown about Edward that would make it a home run."

Edward's brows pull together in utter confusion as I attempt to kick Jasper beneath the table; I miss, and Edward yelps as the toe of my boot comes into contact with his shin. "Shit," I hiss. "Sorry."

"No worries," he says, shaking his head even as he bends, ostensibly to rub his injured leg. "I was more surprised. Former soccer player; I've been kicked a thousand times. Don't sweat it."

While my faux pas didn't exactly have its intended effect, it has mercifully banished Jasper's ill-disguised attempt at nosiness from everyone's recent memory.

"Chicken quesadilla and guacamole dip?" Angela suggests, and we all nod.

"Done," Jasper says, sliding the menu back between the wall and the salt and pepper shakers. We order the appetizers and the conversation splits, with Jasper and Edward rehashing the game and Angela describing how the students in her introductory drawing class managed to make Shakespeare look like a fried egg, an alien, and an ice cream sundae, among other things. The appetizers arrive, we order entrees, and Jasper brings the conversation back to all-inclusion.

"So, guys, how's the birds and bees curriculum going?"

Edward glances at me, and I raise an eyebrow in response. He's doing most of the teaching, so it seems only right to let him take the lead. "It's going well," he replies finally. "Bella's been a really big help."

I snort. "Please. I haven't said a word." I toss him a smile. "Edward's rocking it."

"Maybe not _in_ the classroom," he argues. "But your advice beforehand really helped me keep control. That's invaluable."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," I reply, and it isn't until Edward flushes slightly and looks away that I note Jasper and Angela's silent study of our conversation. "Anyway," I say, grabbing a chip from the basket and dunking it in guacamole. "No one's knocked up and we haven't had to send anyone to the principal's office, so I think it's a win."

"No doubt," Jasper says, taking a bite of his quesadilla triangle. "I can't imagine teaching that curriculum. Give me numbers and theorems any day of the week."

Edward chuckles. "It's certainly different from teaching the rules of lacrosse, that's for sure."

Edward has inadvertently hit on Jasper's lone sport-specific passion – lacrosse – and the boys lose themselves in jock-talk once again while Angela and I resort to shamelessly gossiping about Jessica's long-standing hook-up. Conversation continues as we polish off the appetizers and our entrees arrive, and I see that Edward's taco salad is missing sour cream and guacamole – in fact, all of the fun stuff.

"What?" he asks when he catches me eyeballing his plate.

"Nothing," I reply quickly, spooning chicken and onions and peppers from my sizzling fajita griddle into a tortilla shell. Mercifully, he lets it go, and conversation resumes as we stuff our faces. After dinner, Angela excuses herself to hit the ladies' room and Jasper slips out of the booth to take a phone call, leaving Edward and me staring at each other over empty glasses and discarded side plates, the debris of our dinner – shreds of lettuce, pieces of tortilla chips, slivers of grated cheese – dotting the tabletop. I sigh, and his eyes widen slightly in expectation. "Listen, Edward, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to make you feel even more uncomfortable around me."

His heavy brows pull together in a frown as he considers me. "What do you mean?"

"The…taking you home comment. I didn't mean it the way it sounded, I swear."

He shakes his head. "No, I figured. I meant, what do you mean 'more uncomfortable'?"

I trace the base of my empty margarita glass, pressing the pad of my index finger to an errant granule of salt and watching it melt against my damp skin. "I get the feeling I make you uneasy, and I didn't mean to make it worse."

"You don't," he says instantly. "Bella, please look at me." I do as he asks, and his green eyes are serious as they pinball back and forth between mine. "You've been really great with the whole health class thing, and inviting me out tonight…you're the first person who's gone out of her way to be welcoming without an agenda, and I'm really grateful." Off my dubious silence, he sighs. "When I got here, to Forks, I had no idea what living in a small town would be like. I grew up in Chicago, and my idea of small-town living was the result of what I'd gleaned from movies and sitcom television. I didn't realize just how into everyone's business people are, and I didn't realize the kind of microscope I'd be under as the new guy in town. I just…very early on, I realized how important it was to make a good impression if I was going to be a teacher, and I've resisted forming any alliances until I got the lay of the land, so to speak." He frowns suddenly. "Am I making any sense?"

"Perfect sense," I assure him. And he is. Small towns can be as ruthless as they are charming, and withholding judgment on people and resisting "alliances," as he put it, is actually a very astute tactic. "I grew up here," I add after a moment, shrugging. "The lay of the land is something I've known since I was a kid, so I guess I never really had to think about it that much."

He nods. "Makes sense." Suddenly I feel his hand cover mine on the table between us, his palm warm and his fingertips cool from his beer bottle. "Really though, Bella, you don't make me uncomfortable. I'm sorry that my…reservedness…made you think that."

I'm trying desperately to focus on his words, but my senses are all honed in on his hand atop mine; all too soon, he pulls it away and mine stays flat on the table, as if waiting for his to return. The gesture is so at odds with the Edward I've been coming to know, so affectionate and open, and my mind is trying to file this new piece of information in the card catalog of data I've been amassing in the short time I've known him. When I refocus on his face, he offers me a small smile. "I promise to stop being such an uptight ass," he says. "My brother's always telling me to lighten up."

At that I laugh, remembering Jasper's assessment of Edward before they met. "And I promise to offer any insights I can to the small-town wonder that is Forks." I arch a teasing eyebrow. "And to resist compromising your integrity by luring you into unfavorable 'alliances'."

He chuckles. "Deal." And yet, as I watch the way his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow when he lifts his beer bottle to his lips and drains the dregs, I can't stop my mind from rolling over all of the wonderfully tempting ways in which I'd love to compromise his integrity, small-town rumor mill be damned.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"I enlightened you about the Rainbow Game; now it's your turn to enlighten me. Slang terms for masturbation: go."

**Acknowledgement: **Words do not exist to describe the epic fabulousness that is my beta, HollettLA. xo

* * *

**Chapter Four**

I gasp as I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, feeling my heart thud frantically in my chest as my lungs and legs burn. The combination of my pounding heart and my gasping breaths are nearly enough to drown out the music in my ears, and I force myself to stand up and fold my hands together atop my head. I hate running, but given Forks' complete lack of a gym or any other fitness facility, if I don't want my weekly Mexican gut-bombs to take up residence on my hips, it's a necessity. I begin walking, my throat aching with each labored breath, and when I reach the intersection at the top of the street I pause, my quad and calf muscles screaming at me. I'm going to need to stretch, otherwise I won't be able to walk for the rest of the weekend. Running may be a necessity at this particular juncture in my life, but in this moment, body screaming at me, why I opted to do it first thing Saturday morning is beyond me.

I grip the pole of the stop sign in one hand and grab my ankle with the other, feeling my quad muscle stretch deliciously as Eminem babbles in my ears. My eyes flick up and down the main road before looking across it; in the distance, I can see a small crowd of bodies running around the school soccer field. Chalking up the flip in my chest to my recent cardiovascular torture and not to the possibility of unexpectedly seeing a certain coach, I glance both ways once more before crossing the street. As I approach, I pick out Edward's lean form standing to one side while his players line up to take penalty kicks. I slow my pace, not wanting to interrupt as I watch a few kids place shots neatly into the back of the net. Eric Yorkie steps up and places his ball on the penalty kick spot, but when he shoots it, the ball goes sailing over the crossbar.

"Why'd it go over the bar, Eric?" Edward asks, and the player in question places his hands on his hips.

"I was, uh, leaning back."

"You were leaning back," Edward agrees. "And?"

"Uh." Eric purses his lips and frowns, and Edward sighs.

"And you didn't place your non-kicking foot right next to the ball; you stopped short. Right?"

"Right," Eric agrees and jogs off to retrieve the ball that sailed over the bar and came to rest against the fence.

"Maybe it was just my imposing presence between the uprights, Coach," I hear Jake suggest from his place in goal, and Edward smirks from around his whistle.

"You're one for four, Jake," he replies. "I wouldn't get too cocky just yet, if I were you."

Jacob chuckles and lowers himself into a crouch. "Keeper ready?" Edward asks, and Jake nods. "Shooter ready?" he asks, and Mike Newton nods. A short blast of his whistle is the starting gun, and Mike takes his shot. A diving save, and Jake leaps up with a grin.

"Two for five!" he boasts, and Edward laughs.

"Do that in a game and we'll be in good shape," Edward agrees. "Okay, boys," he says to the rest of his players. "Cool down." The team jogs in my direction, lining up along the sideline.

"Hey, Bella," Jacob greets me, and Edward spins to find me standing behind him.

"Hi!" he greets, grinning around his whistle, and I can see glimpses of his pink tongue as he talks around the plastic. Suddenly, he frowns. "That's Ms. Swan, Black," he says to his goalkeeper, a disapproving frown on his face as he spits out his whistle, and Jake's olive skin flushes slightly.

"Oh, no, it's okay; our families are old friends," I tell Edward. "I've told him that outside of the classroom, I can still be Bella."

Edward nods and faces his team. "Captains, cool them down." As the team begins a slow jog across the field, he turns to me once again. "Hi," he says again, and I smile.

"Hey. You practice on Saturdays?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes. After a tough game like last night, I like to get them moving so their muscles don't tighten up. Two days of not doing anything after a game like that would take its toll."

"Makes sense," I agree, watching as his team jogs back toward us. I feel his eyes on me and I glance up at him.

"You working out?" he asks, eyebrows hitched slightly, and I laugh.

"I'm trying really hard not to take offense at your surprise."

"Oh, no no no," he says quickly, shaking his head. "I didn't mean it like that. I just…didn't realize…" he trails off, frowning, and I laugh.

"Unclench, Edward. I'm kidding. I hate running, but the opportunities for other types of cardio workouts in Forks are pretty limited."

"I could help you with that," he says, and I can't stop the surprise from stealing across my face as I stare up at him, the unintentional innuendo sitting heavy in the space between us.

As is his way, Edward flushes, and his eyes dart away. "Oh, God."

I chuckle. "Okay, I guess we're even."

"Even?"

"I offered to take you home last night, you're offering to 'work me out' this morning. I'd say we're even now."

He runs a hand through his hair, and it isn't until that moment that I realize his hair is wet, and there's a long v-shaped patch of damp cotton on his chest. "Were you working out?" I ask, and when he finds my face, I nod toward his sweat-soaked shirt.

"Oh. Yeah. I was, uh, scrimmaging with the guys. Ben couldn't make it this morning, so we were a man short."

"Ah," I reply, incredibly sorry that I missed the chance to actually see him play. I watch as the line of boys does lunges across the field. "Okay," I say after a few more beats of silence. "Well, I just wanted to…say hi."

"Okay," he says slowly, watching the team turn and head back in our direction.

"Unless…can I buy you coffee?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I was going to grab something at the diner after my run," I explain as his eyes flick between me and the boys. "If you'd like to join me for coffee. Or…breakfast. Or…something."

He glances down at his sweaty clothing and grimaces. "I'm, uh, sort of disgusting."

"Me too," I say, and after a few more moments, he shrugs.

"Okay. That'd be great."

My voice is forced nonchalance, even as the heart that was gradually slowing kicks it up a notch. "Great."

He visibly relaxes and faces me, a smile on his face. "Great."

I hover while he has a post-practice pep talk with his kids and finishes packing up the equipment, and by the time we're settled into a tiny two-person booth at the Forks diner with two steaming mugs of coffee between us, the familiar awkwardness has descended once again. I flick a sugar packet between my fingers as Edward peruses the menu; after a few more flicks, his eyes find mine over the admittedly limited list of options. "Do you know what you're having?"

"French toast," I say immediately. "Roger makes the best freaking French toast in the world."

"Hmm," he hums, returning his gaze to the menu once more before setting it to one side. I smirk at him.

"Let me guess: oatmeal and fresh fruit."

His eyebrows hitch slightly. "Pardon?"

I gesture toward the discarded menu. "I'm guessing your order: oatmeal and fresh fruit."

He purses his lips. "How'd you guess?"

I shrug and resume my flicking. "I just…you're very disciplined about your food," I say. "Lots of salad. No sour cream or guac at Plaza last night."

"It's important to start being mindful of heart health early on," he says, and I can hear the familiar embarrassment in his voice. It's nearly enough to make me feel badly for picking on him, but not quite badly enough to stop.

"You know, some research suggests that occasional indulgences are as good for the body as they are for the mind. For instance, did you know that people who eat chocolate regularly can have lower blood pressure, lower bad cholesterol, and a lower risk of heart disease?"

He studies my face intently. "I did not."

I shrug. "I'm just saying…a little indulgence isn't always a bad thing."

He's apparently still turning this over in his brain when Cora reappears to take our orders. "What can I get you two?" she asks, hands on her hips. In all my years dining at Forks' most long-lasting establishment, I don't think I've ever seen her write anything on a notepad, and I've never once received an incorrect order.

"Ladies first," Edward says, and I grin up at her, but she beats me to the punch.

"Let me guess," she says. "French toast." It isn't even a question, and I nod as she turns to Edward. "And for you?"

Edward's lips twist for a brief moment before he glances at me and then back to Cora. "I'll have the same."

I feel the surprise on my face, and when Cora nods and disappears, Edward grins at me. "If I wind up morbidly obese due to too many indulgences, I'm coming to find you."

I laugh. "I find that highly unlikely," I reply, taking a sip of my steaming coffee. "So. Chicago, huh?"

"Yep," he says, wrapping a large hand around his mug.

"You grew up in the city?"

"Well, sort of. I went to boarding school, but my parents' house was inside city limits."

"Wow. Boarding school? What was that like?"

He shrugs. "Not nearly as bad as most movies make it out to be." Off my laugh, he continues. "It was an all-boys' prep school in the suburbs. I was there from sixth grade through twelfth."

"Wow," I say, unable to think of something more intellectual. "That must have been good for college."

He nods. "I got a soccer scholarship to Princeton and I started out studying anatomy and physiology with the intention to go pre-med at my father's insistence, but I wound up hating the idea of practicing medicine. Much to my father's eternal disappointment, I decided to put my degree to use teaching PE."

"So how did you wind up on the opposite side of the country?"

"My girlfriend enrolled in a graduate program in Seattle and I figured I could teach anywhere, so I followed her."

I feel a frown pull at my features before I can smooth it out. At least that answers the gay-or-straight question. "I didn't realize—"

"We broke up," he clarifies. "Before I came to Forks. We'd been together since we were nineteen, and we sort of grew apart. At that point I was debating moving back East, but my brother lives in Colorado and I'm not that close with my parents, so I decided to stay out here and give Washington a try. I finished my master's in phys ed and the rest, as they say…"

"Wow," I say stupidly, trying to assimilate all of these new facts about Edward into my mental scrapbook of details. I'm slightly surprised – though not unpleasantly so – that he's so forthcoming. I wonder idly if his rigidity is solely reserved for his on-school-grounds persona.

"What about you?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Pretty boring," I say. "Forks native, born and raised. Went away to college and came back almost immediately."

"Where'd you go?"

"Berkeley," I reply, and the expected admiration crosses his face briefly.

"Wow." He plays with the handle of his mug. "What made you come back to Forks?"

I shift on the fake leather seat. "My, uh, dad – Charlie – he got hurt in the line of duty, so I came back to sort of help out. As luck would have it, Forks had an opening for an English teacher." I offer him a small smile. "And the rest, as they say…"

"Wow. Bella, that's…really selfless."

It's my turn to flush, and I glance back toward the kitchen. "It's no big deal," I say.

"Yeah it is," he says, but thankfully doesn't seek any further comment. Just as the silence is tilting toward uncomfortable, I hear a familiar voice saying my name from over my shoulder. When I turn, Jessica is standing there beside her booty-call – _Mark_, I silently correct myself – her eyes pinging back and forth between Edward and me. "Hey, I thought that was you!" she says. "We were just…uh…grabbing breakfast."

"Yeah, us too," I reply. "Jess, you know Edward Cullen."

"Right, yeah, of course," she says, nodding at Edward like her head is about to come unhinged from her neck. "Hear you had a good win last night."

"We did," Edward says. "Thanks."

We coexist in awkward silence for a few beats before Jessica nods. "Well, just wanted to say hi. See you Monday!" She all but drags Mark along behind her, vanishing through the door to the diner.

My eyes find Edward. "So that's Jessica."

"And her…hot date?" he guesses, and my laugh is nearly a guffaw. Hearing Edward say "hot date" seems nearly as wrong as if he'd actually said "booty call."

"Indeed. That's the coffee-morning-after-walk-of-shame right there. She won't date him, but she assuages her guilt by letting him stick around through breakfast."

"Wow," he says, eyes flicking to the door. "Rough."

"Just be glad you never took her up on the offer of her phone number," I tease, and almost immediately his cheeks darken slightly. Before he can respond, however, Cora appears with two platters of French toast. As she sets them on the table, the look of anticipation on Edward's face makes me wish I had a camera.

"Here you go, guys. Enjoy."

"We will," I assure her, handing Edward the small jug of syrup. "Welcome to Forks."

Edward grins and drizzles syrup on his breakfast, though not nearly enough. I resist the urge to comment: baby steps.

* * *

Edward's having salad again. As I spear a piece of rotini from my Tupperware tub of leftover homemade baked macaroni and cheese, I wonder idly if he ever sinks those perfectly straight teeth into something like a hamburger or a slice of pizza. Outside of our impromptu breakfast, all I've seen him eat is salad. Granted, the taco salad at Plaza probably packs nearly as many calories as a slice of pepperoni, but since he opted out of the sour cream and guacamole, the blow was likely lessened considerably.

"So…week two, human sexuality," Edward says, his knee bouncing as his eyes scan the plan book open on the desk in front of him.

"Yep," I say, making myself as close to comfortable as I can on his crappy furniture. "Which is really an umbrella term for everything relationship-related with the sex on the side."

"Sex on the side," he repeats absently, reading something on one of the papers. "Sounds like a VH1 reality show." I can feel the surprise on my face, and his eyes slide to mine almost instantly. "Sorry. Inappropriate."

"Not at all," I assure him. "Funny, actually. And true, which makes it funnier." He chuckles, eyes still trained on his desk. "But I think it's important that when we do introduce the sex stuff, we really hammer home the importance of condoms," I add, chewing slowly. "I mean, of course we'll tell them that abstinence is the only completely foolproof method of pregnancy and STD prevention, but really, do you remember being a teenager? It's like trying to keep bunnies in separate corners of the pen in springtime."

He scratches at the back of his neck. "The, uh, boarding school I went to was boys only. My opportunities for…exploration as a teenager were very limited."

"Ah. Well then, at least you're prepared for the masturbation part of the discussion." I mean it as a joke, but Edward's face is a picture of horror. "Sorry. I was only kidding."

"We're supposed to talk to them about masturbation?" he says, and I note the momentary pause before he says the word, as well as the fact that he seems more disturbed by this than by my implication.

"Well, not in-depth. Just to mention that it's…you know, normal, and acceptable, and…well. Normal."

A small smile. "Okay. Yeah, I definitely remember _that_ part of being a teenager."

A flash of heat licks through me and it's my turn to blush; I lower my gaze to the text in front of me and will my coloring to return to its normal, lovely shade of pasty. "And, um, just be prepared: in past years, this is the part of the curriculum where they tend to start tossing out the slang terms. Teenagers love a good masturbatory euphemism."

"I bet I know more than they do," he says absently, stabbing a cucumber.

"Yeah? Let's hear them," I challenge before I can check myself.

His eyebrows slide up his forehead and his cucumber-wielding fork hangs in midair halfway to his open mouth. "Pardon?"

"I enlightened you about the Rainbow Game; now it's your turn to enlighten me. Slang terms for masturbation: go."

"Bella, I'm not sure—"

"Don't be uptight," I interrupt, giving him a mock version of my teacher look of disapproval.

He sighs, considering me for a moment before straightening slightly in his chair and dropping his fork into his container of salad. "You asked for it." He holds up a hand and begins ticking them off. "Jerking off, rubbing one out, whacking off, beating off, spit-shining the water pump, adjusting the antenna, spanking the monkey, self-actualizing, choking the chicken, bopping the baloney, beating the bishop, buffing the banana, burping the worm, charming the snake, the white-knuckler, the pocket rocket, the five-knuckle shuffle, a date with Miss Palmer, fiddling the flesh flute, fisting the mister, flogging the log, jerkin' the gherkin, mangling the midget, the one-gun salute, pocket pinball, pulling the Pope, slapping the salami, wanking, squeezing the cheese, taming the shrew, whipping the dripper…and the politically popular 'population control.'"

I'm staring at him stunned, jaw hanging open and eyes wide. "Wow," I breathe, and Edward scratches his eyebrow before retrieving his fork and bringing the cucumber slice to his mouth. "That's…comprehensive. And I've got to tell you, the sheer amount of alliteration on that list makes the English teacher in me proud," I add, ignoring altogether what hearing him speak those words has done to the other parts of me as I drop my eyes to my lunch and stab more pasta. "Though your list is sort of biased."

He frowns. "Biased?"

"Well, yeah. All of those euphemisms assume the masturbator in question has a…gherkin. What about the girls?"

He leans back in his chair and tents his fingers in front of his chest. "Boarding school, remember? I wasn't privy to that information."

"That's too bad," I say, and he raises one eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to enlighten me?" he asks, pushing against the floor with one foot and twirling slightly in his chair. His words are almost flirtatious, and that fact alone would be enough to give me pause even if the words themselves weren't.

"I'm sorry?"

"If I'm to be a good educator, shouldn't my knowledge be more – what was your word – comprehensive?" I chew on my lip and he mimics my disapproving teacher stare from earlier. "I enlightened you," he taunts, and I relent.

"Fine," I huff, mimicking his finger-ticking as I count them out. "A night in with the girls, beating around the bush, auditioning the finger puppets, dialing the rotary phone, dousing the digits, double-clicking the mouse, flicking the bean, finger painting, pearl fishing, playing poker, rolling the dough, buffin' the muffin, rubbin' the nubbin, spelunking, gagging the clam, surfing the channel, tickling the taco, the taco tango, the manual override."

Pink spreads across his cheekbones as the flush I'm becoming increasingly fond of makes an appearance. "Wow."

"Yeah. So…keep those in your arsenal."

His lips twist. "For the next time I'm discussing female masturbation with a colleague?"

"Exactly."

The silence that settles between us is awkward and slightly charged, and when I've had about all I can take of listening to us chew, I steer us back to the topic at hand. "The thing to remember is that this stuff is targeted toward a demographic that is probably already sexually active, to a degree."

His green eyes pin me. "High school freshmen."

I shrug. "Even if they haven't had sex yet, most of them have done at least some stuff."

His eyes flick over the papers at his elbow. "I'm sending my kids to boarding school," he mutters. "Very effective at preserving virginity long after the owner is fed up with it."

"How old were you?" I ask casually, staring resolutely at my tub of lunch.

"What?"

"The first time." I chance a glance at him and he seems to be considering me. His words from our conversation over Mexican beer and margaritas replay in my mind, and I hope that he's gradually deeming me someone he can trust.

"The _first time_, first time?"

"Yeah."

"Twenty-one," he admits, looking more than a little embarrassed. "You?"

"Eighteen. Freshman year of college." I smile. "Being the only daughter of the chief of police in a small town is probably nearly as effective a chastity belt as boarding school."

He laughs. "I'd imagine. Your dad's a pretty imposing guy."

"Picture him in his prime."

"I almost feel sorry for the teenage males of Forks from yesteryear," he jokes, and I roll my eyes. I'm just opening my mouth to drag us back to the topic at hand – so to speak – when there's a timid knock on the doorframe of Edward's open office door. We both look up to find Rosalie and Alice hovering on the threshold, each girl looking like she's been summoned to the principal's office.

"Hello ladies," Edward greets, spinning slightly in his wheeled chair. "Can I help you?"

"We were, um, actually looking for Ms. Swan," Alice says from slightly behind Rosalie, and I smile encouragingly.

"Yes, girls?"

"We had, um, something we wanted to…well…talk to you about," Rosalie explains, and her reticence catches me by surprise. Rosalie Hale is rarely timid and even less frequently insecure.

"Okay," I say, and wait.

"It's, uh, sort of about…y'know…the…uh…Sex Ed stuff," Alice clarifies, the last three words coming quickly from her mouth as both girls' eyes flick to Edward and back to me. Edward, to his credit, glances at me before rising quickly from his chair and nodding to the girls. "I have some photocopies to make, actually," he says, grabbing his lesson plan book and a manila folder from his desk. "You can use my office."

"Thanks," I say as he disappears, and I listen to the squeak of his sneakers across the gym floor before the sound of the large doors on the opposite side closing behind him echo through the empty space. "Okay, ladies. What's up?"

The girls both shift their weight and I stand up, relocating from my place on Edward's sunken couch to his leather chair; once I'm settled, I gesture toward the sofa and both girls lower themselves carefully onto it. They share a look before Rosalie heaves a sigh. "So I've been dating Emmett McCarty," she begins, and I nod, careful to keep my face neutral. It's an unwritten rule of teaching that you pretend to know nothing about a student's social life until he or she offers up the information firsthand. She chews her glossed lip. "I like him a lot." I nod again and she glances at Alice, who offers an encouraging nod. "I love him, actually."

"That's great, Rosalie," I say, my voice cautiously encouraging.

"Yeah," she says on a sigh, her teeth finding her lip again. "It's just…you know how I was dating Royce before?" I nod, and she continues. "Well, Royce and I, we sort of…did it." Her porcelain cheeks pink slightly, and from the corner of my eye I see Alice squeeze her hand. "Just once. I didn't…I wasn't really ready. I mean, I _thought _I was ready, and Royce really wanted to, but afterward I realized…I just wasn't as ready as I thought I was." She frowns. "That's one of the reasons we broke up, actually. He wanted to keep doing it, and I…didn't. He got mad and we were fighting a lot because he kept pressuring me, so we finally broke up."

I reach out and squeeze her hand once before withdrawing. "Rose, I'm really proud of you for standing up for yourself. Just because you say yes once doesn't mean that you have to say it again."

She nods, appearing bolstered by my cheerleading. "Thanks. So. Anyway. We broke up and I started dating Emmett and…I don't know. He wants to have sex but he said he'll wait as long as I want him to. He's a virgin. And I…I don't think I'm ready yet, but I think I could be soon. But I'm just…I'm worried that if I do it, and it's a mistake again, Emmett will start wanting to do it all the time like Royce did and then I'll lose him, too. And if Royce finds out that I'm having sex with Emmett…" She trails off, apparently opting not to let her mind wander down that path of possibility.

I nod carefully. "Okay, well, first of all, Royce's possible reaction has no bearing on your relationship with Emmett," I tell her carefully. "So I think you need to try to put that particular concern to one side, if you can." She nods. "As for Emmett...does he know anything about your…experiences…with Royce?" She nods again. "Okay. Well, that's good. I think you need to be as honest as you can with him about your fears and go from there. But Rosalie, the most important thing is, if and when you do decide to have sex with Emmett, that you do it because _you're_ ready and _you _want to – not for any other reason. Okay?"

She blows out a breath. "Okay."

"And, of course, this is the Sex Ed teacher in me: make sure you guys are safe about it, okay?"

She chuckles. "Okay."

"Okay," I say, leaning back in Edward's chair. I'm expecting them to rise, but instead Rosalie shoots a look at Alice, who heaves a sigh of her own. "Alice?" I prompt, and she scrunches up her nose.

"I just…wanted your advice about something, too."

"Okay."

"Ms. Swan, have you ever…been in love with an older man?"

It takes everything in me to stop the smile that threatens to split my face. "An older man?" I repeat carefully, buying myself time.

"Yeah. Like, I mean not OLDER-older, like old-man older—" her small nose scrunches up "—because ew, gross, but like, sort of older? Like maybe…ten years or so older?"

I wonder if I was this transparent as a teenager. "You know, Alice, I'm not sure that I have. I mean, I had a crush on a senior in college when I was a freshman, but I can't say that I've ever experienced a larger age gap than that." Idly, I wonder how old Edward is before I forcibly redirect my mind to Alice's expectant face. "May I ask why?"

She glances at Rosalie before squaring her shoulders. "I think I'm in love with an older man. And I want to know how I should go about…informing him of that fact."

_Trust me, he knows_, I want to say, but I nod carefully. "Well, Alice…that's tricky because you're only sixteen, so a man who's ten years older than you would be legally forbidden to actually engage in any type of romantic relationship with you."

She rolls her eyes. "I know, Ms. Swan. I'm not looking to pull a Lolita on him. I just…want him to know. Maybe if he knows he'll…wait."

I lean back slightly, folding my hands in my lap. "I see." I smile softly. "I don't suppose you're interested in hearing an adult imply that if you give it time it'll pass and you can find someone your own age?"

"Not really, no," she says simply.

"I figured." I lean forward again. "Okay, Alice, listen. I can't in good conscience give you tips on how to attract a man who would be classified as a pedophile if he returned your affections. That said, I would encourage you to find someone who shares your interests. Do you know for sure that you share interests with this man?"

"We both like math," she says absently, and her eyes widen slightly as she realizes how telling her confession could be. "I mean, um, we both like problem-solving. Like…mathematical-type problem-solving." She casts a panicked look at Rose, who glances warily at me. I force myself to look as stupid as possible.

"Okay. What else?"

She frowns into the middle distance. "Um." Her knee bounces as she racks her brain.

"Alice?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it possible that you don't know an awful lot about this person beyond what's on the surface?"

I can almost see her mind working. "Maybe," she allows. "But we do talk a lot."

I know exactly how much they talk, and how steadfastly Jasper keeps the conversation on algebraic equations, but there's no way for me to steer this in that direction without embarrassing Alice completely, so I nod. "About your personal lives? About interests and passions and hobbies?" Her frown deepens.

"I guess not. So I should do that, then?"

I throw Jasper a bone. "Alice, I think conversation is a good way to judge if someone returns your interest. If the man you're talking about is receptive to that kind of conversation – if he shares a lot of personal details about himself and asks a lot of questions about your personal life – then I think that's an indication that he's interested. If he tries to avoid those types of questions, I think he's probably not."

"Wow. That's really good, Ms. Swan," Rose murmurs in approval. "You're like a dating Jedi, aren't you?"

"Pardon?"

"Like, all covert and stuff. That's awesome. I'm totally going to remember that."

I laugh; if only they knew how truly boring my own dating history is, they'd reassess in a hurry. "Thanks for that, Rosalie. You just made my day."

Her eyes flick to the door. "You and Mr. Cullen would make a really hot couple," she says, and Alice elbows her.

"_Rose_," she hisses, and I will my face not to flush.

"Girls, Mr. Cullen and I are coworkers." We might even be friends, too, but I'm not going to make that assertion for the very first time to a pair of hormone-driven teenage girls with a propensity to speculate. Rosalie shrugs.

"Just saying," she offers, picking up her backpack from the floor. "Thanks, though. Seriously. You're awesome."

"Anytime, girls. And Rose, remember: not until you're ready, and when you are, be safe."

"Got it," she says, and as they both disappear out Edward's office door, I thank God we're approaching the condom part of the curriculum.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. I know this is a bit of a slow burn, so because you're all being so patient, here's a little sneak preview of what's coming in Chapter 5:_

**"Remember the Forks rumor mill you were so concerned about?" He nods. "Well, I may have just landed you smack in the middle of it."**


	5. Chapter 5

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"Remember the Forks rumor mill you were so concerned about?" He nods. "Well, I may have just landed you smack in the middle of it."

**Acknowledgement:** Eternal thanks to HollettLA, who uses liquor examples for punctuation-related teaching moments. If she'd taught my college courses, I'd have likely graduated with a 4.0. xo

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"You owe me," I tell Jasper as I slide into the seat beside him at the small lunch table in the teachers' lounge during fourth period on Wednesday afternoon.

"For what?" he asks around a mouthful of lettuce, and I roll my eyes. That the men in my life are more vigilant about their diets than I am is going to be a source of insecurity for me somewhere down the line, I can already feel it in my bones. Thank God for Charlie and his unapologetic lust for a hunk of red meat and a pile of French fries.

"For giving you an out with Alice Brandon."

"Do tell," he says, stabbing a carrot.

"She asked me how to attract an older man," I say, waggling my eyebrows as I unearth a square of leftover lasagna, and he grimaces.

"Great."

"I told her that if the man in question was inquisitive about the details of her personal life, she should take that as an indication of his interest. If not, she should probably try a different guy."

He considers me as he chews. "And you think something that subtle is going to dissuade Alice?"

I shrug. "I think it's the closest you're going to come without outright telling her that you fish in a different ocean entirely."

He nods. "Fair enough. Well, thanks."

"No sweat."

Angela slides into the chair across from me and pulls open her cooler-style lunch bag. "Thank God it's Wednesday. This week is killing me."

"Tough time with the finger-painters?" Jasper teases, and Angela mock-glares at him.

"I _wish_ I were teaching finger-painters," she mutters, pulling a small tub of potato salad out of it. I shoot Jasper a pointed look that confuses him entirely as he chews on a cucumber slice.

"What?" he asks once he swallows, but my premeditated snark about his chick-diet is cut off by Edward's unexpected appearance.

"Hi!" I say perhaps a little too brightly, and Edward's surprise mirrors my own.

"Oh. Hi. I, uh, just needed a fork. Thought there might be some in here."

I tilt my head toward the so-called cutlery drawer next to the small fridge that holds an assortment of plastic and other discarded flatware. "Go nuts."

"Thanks." He crosses the small space and I take note of the fact that I'm not the only one watching when he bends over the drawer and rifles through it. I can't deny that I appreciate what the man looks like in slacks, but there's nearly as much to be said for what track pants do to his…assets. When he turns to find the three of us staring at him, his eyes widen slightly.

"Want to join us?" I cover, gesturing toward the open seat.

"Sure," he agrees, approaching us and sliding into the vacant chair.

"How's it going?" Jasper asks, and Edward nods as he pries open his plastic tub of salad and I roll my eyes.

"Good, thanks," he says, catching the tail end of my eye-roll. "What?"

"Do you see something wrong with this picture?" I ask, gesturing at his and Jasper's lunches before pointing to my own food and Angela's.

"Besides your apparent disregard for vegetables?" he replies, and Jasper laughs.

"You guys are worse than some of the female students."

"Ouch," Jasper replies, munching obnoxiously loudly on a mouthful of salad.

"She's right though," Angela says, opening the plastic bag containing her turkey sandwich before changing the subject. "Bella, listen, sorry to ditch you, but I can't make movie night tomorrow. My mother's going out of town, so I offered to lead her Bible study group for her."

"Aw, man," I say, only half-kidding. "It's _The Philadelphia Story_ this week!"

"I know," she groans as she picks up half of her sandwich. "It's one of my favorites. But you know my mother."

I nod because I do. Ann Weber is lovely, but she can bring the guilt like no other mother. The Methodist minister's wife could teach the Catholics a thing or two, I bet. "It's okay. I understand."

"_The Philadelphia Story_?" Edward asks, fork hovering over his rabbit food.

"Yeah. Angela and I hit up the independent film house in Port Angeles whenever they're showing something good," I tell him. "They usually reserve one screen for old black-and-white movies. We saw _The Shop Around the Corner _last week."

Edward nods. "Better than the remake," he says, and my reaction is nearly identical to when he figuratively kneecapped Hemingway in the hallway. "What?" he asks me when he notes my expression.

"You know that one?"

He shrugs. "I like Jimmy Stewart."

Aaaaand now I sort of want to marry him. Great. "Wow."

He glances at Angela and Jasper before returning his focus to his lunch, chasing a chickpea around the tray. "I, uh, would be happy to go with you if you'd like the company," he says to his salad. "I haven't seen _The Philadelphia Story_ in years."

"That's…so thoughtful," Angela interjects, shooting me a conspiratorial look, and I feel something buzzing in my ears before I look at Edward, whose eyes flick up to glance at me before he refocuses on stabbing his food.

"That'd be great," I say when it becomes apparent that he's not going to meet my eye.

"Great," Jasper echoes, shit-eating grin in place, and I'm suddenly thankful that Edward's making eyes at his lunch. I glare at him and mouth "Alice," which has the intended effect of wiping the smirk from his face.

"Thanks," I say to Edward, and he nods, finally looking up at me.

"So, Hoquiam this week," Jasper says, redirecting the conversation to Edward's team. "They any good?"

I focus my gaze on my leftover lunch, despite the fact that I can feel Angela's eyes boring into the top of my head.

* * *

On Thursday, Edward's pants are black, his shirt is a deep burgundy, and I feel like my ovaries might explode if I look at him for too long. I'm also developing a rather unhealthy fascination with his gleaming silver belt buckle; I tell myself that it has nothing to do with my desire to unbuckle it, but I'm pretty sure I'm lying. When he notices me stepping into his health classroom, he grins and glances down at the lunch sack I have yet to find time to deposit in the fridge in the teachers' lounge. "What is it today?" he asks. "Roast beef? Pork loin? Spaghetti marinara?"

"Leftover vegetable lo mein," I say, and he shudders visibly. "Oh, come on, Edward. You can't truly dislike everything except _salad_."

"I don't," he says. "But I do like salad. And it's healthy. And it's convenient for lunch. Besides," he adds, looking decidedly smug, "I don't even have salad today."

I roll my eyes. "Oh? And what do you have? Fresh fruit and cottage cheese?" His smugness is replaced with incredulity, and I laugh outright. "You do, don't you? Ha! Nailed it."

"Have you been snooping in my office?" he demands, eyes alight with mockery.

"No," I promise. "I'm just figuring you out."

At that, he looks disappointed. "Wow. I must be really boring."

"Believe me, Edward, you are not boring. Your dietary habits, however…"

He sighs and slides his pen behind his ear, half-sitting on the desk and curling his fingers around its lip. "I know. I willingly admit that the French toast on Saturday might have been the best thing I've eaten in months."

I beam. "See? Told you."

He nods. "You were right." He glances up at the clock on the wall at the back of the room before one hand rises from the desk to cup the back of his neck. His eyes flick toward the door before I see his throat bob with a swallow and he speaks again. "So how about you let me buy you dinner and I let you choose my order?"

The surprise about floors me. "Pardon?"

He retrieves the pen again and twirls it deftly between his fingers. "Before the movie. Can I buy you dinner? Or after, if that works better for you." He shrugs. "I'm flexible." _I'll bet_, I want to say, but I'm temporarily speechless. He frowns. "Unless…I'm sorry, I didn't even ask if you were seeing someone." His words only further confirm in my mind that he's actually asking me out, and any doubts about his motivations behind offering to accompany me to the movies are eradicated.

"I'm not," I say quickly. "Not at all. I, uh, that would be nice. Great. Lovely." I cut myself off and frown at my lack of adequate adjectives. The English teacher part of my brain stands menacingly to one side, glaring and cracking a whip.

"So, yes, then?" he asks, his face hopeful and almost teasing, and I smile back.

"Yes."

He beams as students begin to file into the room, and it takes everything in me not to blush Edward-style when Rosalie glances from Edward to me and smirks.

"Okay, everybody, today we're going to be talking about human sexuality," Edward begins, and there's a smattering of groans and a few eye-rolls as the kids get settled. He continues, ignoring the chorus of disappointment. "While I'm sure many of you are hyper-focused on the second word, I'd like to point out that 'human sexuality' is an umbrella term that encompasses a lot of different things about how you guys see yourselves in relation to other people. We'll be talking about gender roles, values systems in regard to sexuality, healthy and unhealthy relationships, and communication in relationships. Before we get started, does anyone have any questions about what we covered last week?"

"C'mon, Coach," Mike replies without raising his hand. "We learned most of that stuff in middle school."

"Well, repetition is key, Mike. If and when you decide to put the information to use, I have faith that all of this tedious reiteration will turn out to be a good thing for you." Mike squints into the middle distance, evidently trying to determine whether or not Edward was being genuine or sarcastic, and Edward takes advantage of his silence to launch into his lesson plan. "Okay, guys. While Mike's thinking that one over, let's crack the books. Page ninety-seven."

I watch as the students retrieve their textbooks and Edward leans against the teacher's desk, half-sitting on the edge while his long legs stretch out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other. His hands grasp the lip of the desk and his eyes scan the room. "Let's start by defining what you think a healthy relationship consists of."

"Regular sex," Mike pipes up, and Edward beams.

"Oh, Mike. As a coach, I can't tell you how your commitment to physical fitness thrills me. That's a timed two-mile run this afternoon. You're going to be able to play a full ninety before mid-season." Mike rolls his eyes and sinks down in his desk; I wonder if it's impulse control or genuine stupidity that ails him. "Healthy relationship. What does it look like?"

Rosalie raises a tentative hand and Edward smiles warmly. "Rosalie."

"Um. Good communication?" Her eyes flick momentarily to Emmett before finding me, and I give her an encouraging smile.

"Yes!" Edward's enthusiasm is similar to what he's like on the sideline, and I tamp down on my own grin. "Yes, Rose, that's great. One of the most important parts of it, in fact. Very good." He straightens and comes around the desk, grabbing a piece of chalk from the tray beneath the blackboard and writing "Communication" near the top of the board. "Great. What else?"

Alice raises a hand. When Edward nods, she says, "Um. Like. Being able to be yourself?"

He nods again as he turns to the board and writes what she says. "Yes," he says to the blackboard. "Identity is key in any good relationship, romantic or otherwise."

"Being understanding," Emmett says without raising his hand, but Edward lets it go and adds the third item to the list.

"Being loyal?" Ben Cheney guesses, and Edward writes "trust/loyalty" on the board.

The kids are getting into it now, tossing out varying things that are all, I'm pleased to see, pretty accurate: "Being supportive," "Being kind," "Mutual interests," "Having fun together."

When the suggestions slow, Edward draws a vertical line beside the list. "Okay," he says, shifting to the other side of the board. "How about stuff that's not so great in a relationship? Stuff you don't want?"

"Manipulation," Lauren Mallory says.

"Lying," Jacob Black adds.

"Cheating." This, from Ben.

"Physical abuse," Tori Keller says, and I glance at her warily as Edward writes, but it seems like a list item and not a personal admission.

"Pressure to move faster than you want to move," Alice adds, and while her eyes don't stray from the blackboard, I feel a warm affection for the girl in my chest. That was for Rosalie's benefit, and the grateful look Rose shoots at Alice's oblivious profile makes me want to smile. Edward nods as he adds "Sexual pressure" to the list before turning back to the class.

"Anything else?" he asks, scanning the room before nodding. "This is a really great list, you guys. I'm impressed. These are key things to consider whenever you're contemplating a relationship with someone, not only now, but as you progress through life. These things don't change whether you're high school sweethearts or spouses." He moves back around to the front of the desk and grabs his ever-present manila folder, sliding a stack of handouts from it. I rise as if on cue, and Edward offers me a small smile as he holds them out to me, whispering "Thanks" before he turns back to the class.

"All right, guys. Here's your handout; it was going to be homework, but you all did such a great job with the class participation today that I'm going to give you a chance to bang it out during class time." Mike snorts and Edward shoots him a glare the likes of which I haven't seen on his face before. "Watch it, Newton." I count out five worksheets and hand them to the first person in the first row before moving to the second and doing the same. "The first worksheet is 'How I Want to Be Treated by My Boyfriend or Girlfriend.' The second is a list of healthy communication tips, and it's worth noting that a lot of these don't just apply to romantic relationships, but to friendships and familial relationships as well." He grins. "So next time your parents are yelling at you for missing curfew, try to remember some of the pointers I'm giving you today, okay?" He waits for me to finish passing them out before nodding and sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "Any questions?" Off their collective silence, he nods again. "Okay. Have at it."

The kids get working and Edward comes to sit beside me in the teacher's chair, pushing against the floor to lean back on two legs. We sit in companionable silence as we watch the class, and it takes more effort than I care to admit to avoid sneaking peeks at my fellow teacher. When I feel said teacher's knee nudging against mine, I glance over to find his closed planning book atop his thigh with a piece of lined notebook paper on top of it. Noting that there's something scrawled on it, I lean over slightly to read it.

_Dinner before or after the movie? Please check one._

I grin. Leave it to a teacher to ask a girl out with a note during class. I slide my pen off the wooden surface of the desk and tap it against my lips for a few moments before uncapping it and leaning forward. Unthinkingly, I brace myself with my left hand on his thigh, and I can feel his quad muscle tense at my touch. Biting my lips against a smile, I put a check mark in the box for "after." Beneath it, I add a note.

_This way you don't have to rush Mike through his timed run._

He reads my words and smiles; I take a quick glance at the students, who are still immersed in their work. Edward scratches out something on the paper and angles it toward me again.

_Excellent point. Thanks. I'll need your address._

I smile as I jot it down and push it back; when his eyes flick over my words, I see his mouth curl in a smile and he nods slightly to himself, folding the note and sliding it into his pocket. When the bell rings, the kids slam their books shut and sweep them off their desks as they beeline for the door. Edward chuckles as he gathers up his own books and turns to face me, propping his teaching materials on one hip as his free hand returns to his pocket. "So, I'll uh…pick you up at five? We can hit the movie then grab dinner?"

I nod. "Sounds perfect."

He grins. "Great."

* * *

When I open my front door to see Edward standing in the semidarkness, the instant butterflies that appear in my stomach make me feel like a teenager all over again. "You look really pretty," he says softly in lieu of hello, his eyes tracing me from head to toe and back up again, and this time I'm the one blushing.

I can't even remember the last time I had a real, honest-to-God first date, and as I stood before my closet after showering the day off, I found that I didn't want to wear any of the sophisticated clothes that I've worn to work. I wanted to look soft and feminine and pretty, and it was this desire that led me to rip the tags off a floral-printed dress that I've had in my closet since the clearance sales at the end of last summer. It's demure and makes me feel like the kind of girl who has dates with cute boys rather than the kind of girl who ruins teenagers' mornings with pop quizzes on Chaucer.

"Thank you," I say now, draping my deep purple cardigan over my forearm and looping the strap of my purse over my shoulder. "You look really great, too."

And he does. He's the perfect combination of Mr.-Cullen-the-Health-Teacher and Mr.-Cullen-the-Former-Jock: dark-wash jeans that are the ideal blend of loose and fitted and a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to just below his elbows. On his feet are black and white Nike sneakers, and I realize instantly that I'm glad Edward went to high school with a couple hundred boys; teenage girls would surely have humped his tendency to blush right out of him before he ever made it to college. His hair is damp and the faint scent of some fresh-scented soap rises from his skin. "Thanks," he replies. He reaches behind him and pulls something out of his back pocket; when he extends it toward me, I see that it's a book. When I take it, the cover is warm from the heat of his body. I glance down at the cover and frown slightly; it's a children's novel by Louisa May Alcott, though not one with which I'm overly familiar.

"_Under the Lilacs_?" I ask, and he shifts his weight on my doorstep.

"I know it's traditional to bring flowers on a first date, but you're a book girl, so I thought I'd bring you a book with flowers in the title," he explains in a rush. "But I didn't want to bring, like, _Flowers for Algernon_ because of the dark subtext. I figured a children's book was relatively subtext-free."

I'm nearly as affected by the gesture as I am by the fact that he's referencing a somewhat obscure short story-turned-novel and its subtext; something tells me now would be a good time to stop underestimating Edward Cullen. "Edward, this is…really sweet. Thank you."

He shifts again and scratches his eyebrow. "You're welcome." He pauses. "Was that lame? It was, wasn't it?"

"Not at all," I tell him firmly, sliding the book into my oversized purse. "It was perfect. I kill flowers with alarming speed, anyway. Anything living you brought me would no doubt be wilted and dead by morning."

"Wow. Good to know." He smiles and takes a deep breath, as if to fortify himself. "You ready?"

"Ready," I confirm, switching off my living room light and stepping out onto the porch behind him. When we reach his car, he holds the passenger door open for me. "Thanks," I say as I slip in, and when he closes the door with a gentle thud and rounds the car, I lean over and push his own door open from the inside. As he slides into his seat, he gives me a funny look. "What?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"Nothing." He turns the key in the ignition. "Movie?"

"Movie," I agree.

A part of me is glad I've seen _The Philadelphia Story_ so many times that I nearly have it memorized, as it gives me the chance to pretend that I'm paying attention to the screen while a good fifty percent of my focus is actually trained on what sitting beside Edward in the dark is doing to me. He holds the bag of popcorn propped on his knee between us with one hand while reaching in periodically with the other to pluck a few kernels from it; on more than one occasion, our fingertips brush, and the thrill that jolts me each time is not entirely unlike what I remember feeling when I was young and touching someone – even fleetingly – was brand new. When his salty fingers graze mine, my blood heats and my heart thuds in my chest loudly enough that it's a wonder he can't hear it. The seemingly innocent touches continue as the movie rolls, and we make our way through the small bag of popcorn; when all that remains are crumbs and kernels, Edward places it beneath his seat as I lick the buttery residue from my fingertips. When I glance at him, his eyes are trained on my mouth; after a quick glance at my eyes, he refocuses on the movie. It's too dark to see the color of his face, but I already know him well enough to know what it would look like.

* * *

"They just don't make 'em like that anymore," I sigh as we wander along the sidewalk after the movie, and in my periphery, I see him shake his head.

"No. My mother would agree with you on that."

"She likes Jimmy Stewart?"

"Loves him," Edward says, and despite his previous assertion that he's not particularly close to his parents, his eyes are warm. "She's the one who got me to like him. When I was about seven, I was home with the flu and we watched _Harvey_ together. I think I must have watched that movie every night for a week afterward."

"That's really cute," I say, grateful for my ability to understate.

"Yeah," he agrees, for once unembarrassed. "Though I have to say, the only thing about the old movies that bothers me is when the guys push around the women. I realize that's very new-millennium of me, but it does. It's one of the major reasons why I don't like _Gone With the Wind._ I know Rhett Butler's supposed to be this timeless leading man, but really…well, he was kind of an asshole."

"True," I say. "Though if ever there was a leading lady who was asking for a good backhand, it was Scarlett."

He laughs. "Also true."

"You're a jock-type," I say as Edward pulls open the door to Bella Italia. "You wouldn't give a girl a shove if she snapped your golf club in half over her knee?"

Edward smirks. "You know what they say about golf?"

"What?"

"A good walk spoiled."

I grin as I step inside the restaurant, and when hostess leads us to a small table for two near the back and Edward helps me out of my coat before pulling out my chair, it hits me that I'm on an honest-to-God _date_ with the fuckhot PE teacher. Granted, all of the little things – the book, opening the car door, paying for the movie tickets and popcorn – have been very date-esque, but sitting at a tiny table for two with just a flickering tea light candle between us feels particularly romantic. "Very chivalrous," I say as I sit, and if the lighting in the restaurant were better, something tells me he would be sporting his trademark flush. This time, however, he smiles as he sits.

Once we have ordered drinks and are looking at our menus, Edward chuckles and puts his to one side. "I don't even know why I'm looking. I promised that you could order for me."

I look up at him, slightly alarmed. "Yeah, but…I thought you were kidding." Off his silence, I add, "That's a lot of pressure. I mean…I don't even know what you like; I've only ever seen you eat rabbit food."

He chuckles. "Like I said, pretty much anything, though rarely beef."

I turn a skeptical eye back to the menu which, while only moments ago looked like a list of deliciousness, now seems fraught with potential potholes. "Ummm…" I trail off as I read descriptions. It occurs to me for the first time just how much cheese there is in Italian food, and I cringe as I imagine Edward fishing ravioli out of a sea of oily sauce. After a few more moments, the menu disappears from my hands and Edward places it atop his own.

"What are you having?" he asks.

"Mushroom ravioli," I reply instantly; like at the Forks Diner, I rarely diverge from my go-to order at Bella Italia.

"Sounds good," he nods. "I'll have the same."

I frown and he grins. "Unclench," he says, his grin morphing into a smirk as he uses my own word against me. I laugh and will my shoulders to loosen. Our drinks arrive and when the waiter disappears with our entrée orders, Edward leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the tabletop. "So, uh, Rosalie's question. Was it something that wasn't clear in class? Because I was serious before – you should absolutely step in at any point."

"Oh, no," I assure him, shaking my head. "No, it was more a…tangential question."

He quirks a brow. "About Emmett?"

My own eyebrows slide upward. "Yes, actually. Why do you ask?"

He takes a sip of his water. "He stayed after practice to talk to me yesterday."

"Oh?"

He nods and leans back in his chair, his long fingers loosely curled around the base of his water glass. "He's a good kid," he says finally.

"He seems it."

"He says he loves Rosalie."

I nod. "She loves him too."

"He wanted advice on how to get her to trust him."

I frown slightly. "So she'd sleep with him?"

Edward squints at me. "What?"

"Why does he want advice on how to get her to trust him?"

"Well, he said that she had a bad relationship before him that left some sore spots and that he wasn't sure how to make her see that he wasn't the same as that guy."

"Royce," I offer, and after a beat, Edward nods in realization.

"Ah. Yes. He doesn't seem like the most…sensitive of guys."

"Not really." I sigh and trace the rim of my water glass. "Rosalie slept with him and regretted it, and he pressured her until they broke up. She's worried the same will happen with Emmett."

He nods. "Not that it's any of my business, but Emmett doesn't strike me as that type."

"It's none of mine either, but I agree with you."

He leans forward again. "Can I ask you something?" When I nod, he continues. "Was it like this when you were a student here?"

I shrug. "Well, kids were definitely doing it. But I feel like maybe less of them were, and it wasn't as…out in the open. But maybe that's just me romanticizing my youth."

He chuckles. "When I was your age…" he mimics, affecting an old-man warble, and I laugh.

"Exactly. Both ways uphill in the snow, and no fornicating." Edward laughs outright, and I'm caught off-guard; I've seen him chuckle, I've seen him smile, but I've never seen him crack up. I like it. "I guess we're probably not the best authorities on teenage sex habits, though," I add. "Boarding school boy and cop-daughter girl."

"Probably not." He considers me for a beat before dropping his gaze to the tablecloth, chewing his lip for a beat before speaking again. "So…no sex in high school, but no…anything else, either?"

I shake my head. "My great love stories in high school were with boys in books."

He nods, still staring determinedly at his water glass. "Yeah. My great love stories in high school were with girls in my roommates' magazines."

He looks up and grins at the laugh that escapes me. "Wow, Edward. I've got to be honest with you, I didn't really picture you as the nudie magazine type."

He takes a sip of his water, the tips of his ears their trademark pink. "Desperate times," he says, and my mind flashes to our masturbation chat.

"Indeed," I agree.

As if his mind has followed the same path as mine, he flushes, and we sit gazing at each other in semi-awkward silence until I hear "Bella?" from behind me and turn to see Shelly Cope standing clutching her purse. "Oh, I thought that was you, dear." Her eyes flick to Edward and widen. "Oh! And Mr. Cullen! Hello!"

I groan inwardly as I rise from my chair and give the old biddy a hug. She's sweet, but she's endlessly nosy, and I can only imagine the "Guess what?" stories she'll share in the main office tomorrow morning. And no doubt with Charlie, given the chance. "Hi, Mrs. Cope."

"Don't let me interrupt," she says, waving a hand in the general direction of our table. "I just wanted to say hello. You tell your dad I said hi, okay?"

"Will do," I promise, and she nods, glancing at Edward once more before turning and scurrying toward the exit. I sigh as I return to my seat and Edward looks at me expectantly.

"What?"

"Remember the Forks rumor mill you were so concerned about?" He nods. "Well, I may have just landed you smack in the middle of it." My teeth scrape my lower lip. "I'm sorry."

His green eyes are on my face, and after a moment, his warm hand covers mine on the table. "Bella, I think I'd be okay with it. If you would."

"I would," I reply with absolutely zero hesitation, and the smile that breaks across his face is brighter than the sunrise. And for once, to my eternal delight, he's not blushing at all.

* * *

When Edward pulls his car into my driveway, he kills the engine and the headlights but leaves the parking lights on before undoing his seat belt. At my confused look, he smiles softly. "I'm walking you to your door," he says and pushes his own door open before I can argue that it's unnecessary. He rounds the car just in time to reach my already-open door as I'm stepping out onto the pavement and shakes his head in faux disappointment before closing it behind me and following me up my porch steps.

"So, thanks for dinner," I say, suddenly feeling like this is a really bad movie script, and Edward only further confirms that assessment when he says, "It was my pleasure." I roll my eyes at our joint lameness and he chuckles. "Yeah, okay, this is awkward."

"See? This is probably why that whole chivalry thing has gone the way of eight-track tapes and VCRs. You should have just slowed to a crawl at the foot of the driveway and I could have hopped out. I can duck-and-roll like a ninja."

"If memory serves, we used a VCR just last week," he points out, ignoring my joke entirely, and is treated to my second eye-roll for his trouble.

"And, if _my_ memory serves, you weren't exactly adept at doing so, which further illustrates my point."

"Trust me when I tell you that I'm far more adept at this than I am at operating archaic technology."

When he blushes, the implication of his words hits me and I can't resist the bait. "Oh? And what exactly is 'this'?"

"Um. Well." He licks his lips, and I step closer; when he looks down into my face, his eyes are heated. "You know. Dating."

"I see."

"Okay, that's a lie. I suck at dating."

I laugh, the flirty sexual tension eliminated entirely. "I don't know," I counter. "I think you're doing pretty well, actually."

"Yeah?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Okay," he breathes. "Cool."

I smile and bite my lip, inordinately pleased when his eyes go immediately to my mouth. "Hey, Edward?"

"Yeah?" His eyes are still on my mouth, and it's amazing how very seventeen I feel right now. Were this a different porch on a different street in this same tiny town, this could be the first-date kiss I missed out on a decade ago.

"Wanna kiss me?"

"Badly," he says.

"Do it," I say, and the words are barely out of my mouth when his lips are on mine and holy hell can the boy kiss. He may be regimented and uptight and occasionally awkward as fuck, but there is nothing uncomfortable or unsure about the way his mouth is moving over mine. His lips are soft and warm and his mouth is open, heated breaths puffing into my own open mouth even though, gentleman that he is, he keeps his tongue to himself. He kisses me hot and sweet before slowing, pressing a few more closed-mouth kisses to my lips before resting his forehead to mine.

He pants into the tiny space between us, his hands cupping my hips. "Listen, Bella, you're the only friend I have here, and I don't want to ruin that, but…" He trails off, pulling back to search my face before blowing out a breath. "You're so damn pretty, and if I'm being honest, my thoughts about you over the past few days haven't been entirely friendly in nature."

"Ditto," I breathe, trying to train my mind on his words and not on the way his warm palms bracket my body as I press a kiss to his chin.

"I…

"We can take this slowly," I murmur against his jaw, and as the words escape my mouth, I'm struck by sudden inspiration. "We can have a do-over!" I exclaim, pulling my torso away from his and meeting his gaze. His green eyes are hooded, his lips glistening, and his brow furrows in confusion at my outburst.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You said you didn't have a typical high school experience when it came to dating, and I didn't either, so maybe we take a page out of the books of our teenage students."

"And what, dry-hump in the back of my car in the driver's ed parking lot?"

"Exactly," I say, a hum buzzing through me at the mental image his words evoke. Judging by the spark in his eyes and the familiar roses blooming on his cheeks, he's not entirely averse to the idea. "Though maybe we park it somewhere off school grounds, just to be safe."

"Bella—"

"This will give us a chance to keep getting to know each other without letting sex get in the way," I continue. "By the time we get there, we'll have figured out if we're better off as friends." I lick my lips and drop my gaze to his mouth. "Here you go," I murmur, raising myself on tiptoes to breathe the final words into his mouth. "First base."

There's no hesitation as his warm mouth covers mine.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Next time:_

**"I should go inside," I say, licking him from my lips. "Otherwise second base might happen in the front seat of your car."**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"I should go inside," I say, licking him from my lips. "Otherwise second base might happen in the front seat of your car."

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA. Infinitely wise, infinitely hilarious. Thanks, lady. xo

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"Hi," he says, and I know before I look at his face that he's smiling. If I didn't already have a crush of epic proportions on Edward Cullen, the fact that his smile can be heard in his voice would be enough to give me one.

"Hi," I say in return, glancing over my shoulder to see him stepping into the room. Gray slacks, black shirt. Fuck _me._

"I had a really good time last night," he says softly, despite the fact that we're the only two people in the room, and I nod as I turn to face him fully.

"Me too."

"I'd like to take you out again."

I lick my lips. "Well, it's Mexican night tonight. You are most definitely still invited."

He beams. "I'd love to, but our game's away tonight. Hoquiam. I don't know what time we'll get back."

I nod. "Okay. Well, if you get back in time, we'll probably be there later than we were last week. Jasper has a date, so we're not meeting until eight."

"Well, maybe I'll see you there, then."

I'm opening my mouth to reply when I'm cut off by Ben Cheney shoving Mike Newton through the classroom doorway and laughing. "Oh, please," I hear him say through his laughter. "You don't have a shot in hell."

"You never know," Mike says as he steadies himself and makes his way to his desk.

"Language, Ben," Edward says as the boys are followed by a few other students.

"Sorry, Coach," Ben mumbles as he finds his seat.

Once the students are in their seats and the bell rings, Edward has completely flipped his switch from the flirty, bashful boy I'm apparently dating to the knowledgeable, commanding teacher I'm working with. As I watch him give the introduction to today's lesson, I can't stop my poorly disciplined mind from wondering which of the two I'll meet if and when our fledgling relationship progresses past the point of goodnight kisses on porches. As he talks and the kids listen, I honestly can't decide which one I'd prefer. Granted, I want a man who knows what he's doing, but at the same time, the idea of watching him redden and stammer while I'm atop him has a certain charm as well. My whorish mind is instantly consumed by that image – me on top of Edward in a tangle of sheets – and it isn't until I hear his voice faintly saying my name that I'm jolted back to the lesson.

"Sorry, what?" I hear snickers from a few of the students, and Edward's face is creased in confusion.

"Gender roles," he says, and I nod quickly.

"Right. Gender roles."

"Would you, uh, like to do the listing today?" he asks, gesturing toward the blackboard, and I nod as I rise, grateful for something concrete to do to keep my mind on topic. "Okay, guys and gals. We're going to start by talking about gender stereotypes. Can anyone give me a definition of stereotype?"

Tori raises her hand and Edward nods. "Like, thinking something that's true of some people is true of all people?"

"Good," Edward says. "Very good. And, more specifically, thinking that an idea about one member of a group is representative of the group as a whole. For instance, a stereotype about teenagers is that they're lazy." At the rumbles of protest and the good-natured complaints, Edward holds up his hands. "I know, I know: true of some, but not all. After all, Mike's commitment to his physical fitness base over the past week has been the antithesis of lazy, wouldn't you say?" The class laughs and Mike shrugs good-naturedly. "Okay. So today we're talking about stereotypes as they pertain to gender. What are some stereotypes about males? You don't need to raise your hands, just call them out; I'm sure Ms. Swan can keep up." I return his grin as I turn to the board, chalk poised; as soon as the students start tossing things out, I start writing.

_Stronger. Tougher. Not allowed to cry. In control._

On Edward's command, they move on to the female stereotypes.

_Physically weaker. More emotional. More passive. More nurturing._

"Okay," Edward says as he glances at the list. "Now, how about some relationship-specific things that are typically considered masculine, and things that are typically considered feminine?"

I make a new column and wait, chalk at the ready as the kids start calling out responses.

_Pulling out chairs. Helping girls into their coats. Opening car doors._

And for the girls.

"Being mysterious. Girls never say what they mean," Mike Newton says.

I glance at Edward, my chalk hovering over the blackboard, and he frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, like, if they're pissed off or something, and you ask them why, they say they're fine, but then they still act pissy. It's like we're supposed to be mind readers."

Alice half-turns in her seat. "Well, sometimes when we _do_ tell you what's wrong, you tell us we're being bitchy. Or unreasonable. Or something. It's like, sometimes even if we're being irrational, we still want you to be sensitive to how we're feeling, even if _why_ we're feeling it doesn't make sense to you."

It strikes me that Alice Brandon might one day make a really good psychiatrist. It also strikes me that we're migrating away from the point of the lesson, but that the discussion that's taking place might have just as much merit. The fact that Edward doesn't redirect the conversation makes me think he agrees with me. "Those are both excellent points, guys. And can you tell me what the key is in resolving both of those issues?"

"Communication?" Ben guesses, and Edward grins.

"Aaaaaand we come full circle." The class chuckles. "Okay. Anything else?"

"We're not, like, expected to say no," Rosalie says. "Ever. If we say no, we're being bitchy. And not just to the sex stuff, but, like, to anything. We're supposed to be agreeable, and we're not supposed to stand up for ourselves."

"And we're supposed to be gentlemen, but if we imply that you can't do something yourself, we're chauvinistic," Emmett replies. "It's like…make up your minds. Do you want us to open your car doors for you, or not?"

At this one, I recall Edward's odd look the night before, when I reached across the driver's seat to open his car door from the inside. I never did figure out what that look meant, and I make a mental note to ask him about it later.

"We want you to acknowledge that we're perfectly capable, but to prove that you're willing to treat us like ladies anyway," Tori pipes up. "It's about you wanting to do it, not about us not being able to do it ourselves."

As Edward and I fade into the background, the thought hits me that teenagers aren't nearly as oblivious as we tend to think they are. I'm also sort of stunned to realize how many issues that crop up in adult relationships start when we're sixteen years old. Who knew?

* * *

"Shut _up_!" Jessica virtually squeals, nearly spitting margarita all over me. Thankfully, she swallows before continuing. "Oh my God, you're going to boink Sex-on-Legs!"

Angela wrinkles her nose. "Jess, I don't think molders of young minds should use words like 'boink'."

"Hump, bang, screw," Jessica huffs, waving a dismissive hand. "Whatever. Point is, I want details."

"Um. No."

"No to the boinking, or no to the details?"

"The details," I reply without thinking, and Jessica and Jasper smirk while Angela gives me a surprised look. "I mean…shit." I shake my head as I lift my own margarita from the table and chew on the neon pink straw. "We're not…boinking."

"Yet," Jessica says smugly, and I roll my eyes.

"We're…dating. We're taking it slow."

"Why?" Jess asks, genuinely baffled. "If I could get Coach McFuckable into my house, I wouldn't let him leave until his legs were wobbly."

"Is that what happens when you get together with Mark?" I redirect, and Jess has the gall to look sheepish. "Ah, see? You can give me shit about Edward, but you don't want to talk about your little…friend."

She shrugs. "There's not much to tell. He's as dumb as a rock, but he's got a dick like a kielbasa."

"Jessica!" Angela very nearly shrieks, and Jess shrugs, though she thankfully tones it down. Jasper, for his part, simply looks amused. Someday I'm going to ask him if penis size is as oft talked about in the gay community as it is in the horny female one.

"Sorry. It's true, though."

"Still," I say. "Probably not something we'd call absolutely necessary information."

"Hm. Noted."

"Is Edward…less uptight when you guys are alone?" Angela asks me, likely remembering Jasper's characterization from before we'd ever hung out with him, and I nod.

"I'll bet," Jess murmurs, and I shoot her a look.

"I get the impression he was raised in a very…disciplined home. I mean, he went to an all-boys' boarding school, and then he went Ivy League. And then he came here and realized almost immediately that people have a tendency to gossip, so he made a conscious effort to avoid getting to know people until he felt more comfortable."

"I'm sure you can think of ways to get him to…relax," Jessica says, waggling her eyebrows as if her words weren't suggestive enough to convey the message, and I roll my eyes.

"Boarding school," Jasper says thoughtfully, and a wicked grin slides over his face. "Too bad my parents weren't of the same mind-set at Edward's. That could have saved me a lot of time and effort. And soul-searching."

"It doesn't sound like it was nearly as debauched as you're probably hoping it was," I say, and Jasper frowns.

"Way to ruin a guy's fantasy, darlin'."

"Ew, Jasper, he started going there as a sixth-grader."

His frown deepens. "Great. Thanks for that."

I shrug. "Sorry." He looks genuinely disturbed, so I sigh and deign to put him out of his misery. "Refocus your imaginings on him as a Princeton soccer player. Aren't locker room shower fantasies high on your list of favorites?"

"That's my girl," he says, salacious grin making a reappearance.

"They're high on _mine_," Jessica interjects, and I laugh into my drink. A part of me is sort of glad Edward had an away game tonight; I needed to gossip with my girls – a designation that Jasper, bless him, doesn't mind in the slightest, despite his decidedly unfeminine persona as a gay professional. "And," Jess continues, "thanks to Bella, I'm anticipating having some salacious details to fortify those fantasies in the near future."

"Jess," I say on a sigh, even as I'm impressed that despite the thirty-two or so ounces of margarita she's sucked down in forty minutes, she was able to get the words "salacious" and "fortify" out without a hitch.

"Okay, okay, sorry, I'm done. Promise." Jessica offers me a genuine smile devoid of her usual suggestiveness. "Seriously though, you guys would make a really cute couple. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks, Jess. Really."

Her earnestness, however, is short-lived. "But I really will be wanting details."

"Buy me enough margaritas and you might just get them."

The way she grins, you'd think I just guaranteed her that she'll win the Powerball. At the thought, I snort into my margarita. _Powerball_. Evidently, it doesn't take me nearly as many margaritas to make me a pervert as it does to make me loose-lipped. "And you?" I ask Jasper, desperate to redirect the focus of the gossip now that I've gotten it out of my system. "How'd your date go?"

He shrugs. "Okay. He was cute, though not nearly as cute as some people's recent first dates."

"And?" Angela presses, taking a generous sip of her drink.

He shrugs. "I don't know. He's a lawyer."

"Which you knew going in."

"Yes. But what I didn't know going in was that he's a lawyer who's also a triathlete. And while soccer players may have phenomenal bodies, they have nothing on the bodies of IronMen." He smirks. "Pun absolutely intended."

"I'm willing to bet there was at least one part of Mr. Cullen that was pretty iron-like while he was sucking face with the resident bookworm over here," Angela interjects, and almost the moment the words are out of her mouth, her eyes widen.

Jessica, for her part, squeals with glee. "Oh, Ang! It's taken me _years,_ but it's finally happened: I've turned you into an unapologetic girlperv! I'm so proud!" She leans into Angela and pulls her into a one-armed side-hug. "Welcome to the club," she breathes with her eyes closed in an approximation of bliss, and she's so earnest I laugh into my drink, completely ignoring Angela's pervtastic comment.

"I may be drunk," Ang says, considering her nearly-empty margarita trough, and I laugh again.

"You guys should make t-shirts or something," I suggest.

"Done and done," Jessica says with a dramatic sigh.

"Date two?" I ask Jasper, and he shrugs.

"Why not? Now that we can confirm that Mr. Sex-on-Legs is undeniably straight, I might as well. Gay math teacher's gotta eat, right?"

I quirk an expectant eyebrow at Jessica, who snorts. "Yeah, no. That one's too easy, even for me."

The waitress appears, asking if we want to order entrees or if we're sticking with apps and drinks; we all look at each other in consideration. It's almost 9:20, and eating Mexican food that late is asking for trouble. I shrug. "I'm probably good with just the apps if you guys are." Everyone makes murmurs of agreement until Jessica points to her empty margarita glass.

"I wouldn't say no to another round, though, if you guys are in."

Angela, usually our one-and-done girl, shrugs. "Why not? It's Friday."

We always meet on Friday, but I don't voice this very valid point; instead, I silently do math in my head: if it takes an hour and a half to get to Hoquiam and the game was at six, Edward should have gotten back to Forks by about nine. If he went home to shower and decided to come out, he might show up in the near future. If he doesn't, I wouldn't mind going home with a buzz. Even if he does, I still wouldn't mind it. "I'm in."

The waitress nods and disappears; just as she's returning with a tray of frozen concoctions and a beer for Jasper, the man of my musings appears in the doorway to the restaurant. Before I can spare a thought to the fact that my spotting him immediately means I may have been staring at the door in anticipation, I throw my hand in the air to catch his attention. "Edward!"

His eyes find me and he grins, and I feel a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the tequila. His smiles are so _easy_, and I think I might find them every bit as appealing as his tendency to go red in the face. He weaves his way around the few tables between our booth and the door before he appears beside our table.

"Hi," he says, still smiling, and I can't stop myself from grinning back. "Hey, everyone," he says, eyes scanning over the rest of the table, and I nudge Jasper with my shoulder.

"Scoot." He grumbles good-naturedly as he all but plasters himself against the wall, and I scoot over to make room for Edward on the bench seat that is, admittedly, designed for the comfort of two. He glances at Jasper's hunched shoulders.

"I can, uh, drag up a chair," he offers, but I shake my head.

"We're good. Sit."

He nods and lowers himself, and once he's in the booth, I can feel the length of his thigh pressed to mine, and I lean ever so slightly into him. I was right: he smells like shower-Edward. As the words trip through my brain, I'm treated to an entirely different visual of the man beside me naked and covered in suds, and I feel someone kick my ankle gently. When I look up, Jessica's shooting me a knowing smirk from around her straw. "Slut," she mouths, as Jasper leans around me to spy Edward.

"You guys win?"

"Yep," Edward replies. "3-1."

"Nice," Jasper says with a nod. "Congrats."

"Thanks."

I press my thigh into his slightly, and he glances down at me, a small smile playing on his lips. The waitress appears with his beer, and he curls one hand around it while the other slips beneath the table and settles innocently enough on my kneecap. Though his hand doesn't move, his fingers don't trace patterns on my denim-covered leg, he doesn't do anything more than simply cup my knee, heat tears through me. I listen with only one ear as he fields Jasper's questions about the game, and I glance across the table to where Jess and Angela are both studying me with knowing smiles. I sip my margarita and enjoy Edward's warmth at my side and the easy conversation with my friends. Maybe living in Forks isn't so bad, after all.

* * *

"That was fun," he says, engine idling in my driveway. The fact that Edward's arrival saved me from having to call a cab or walk home in the misting rain is yet another reason I'm so glad that he came out tonight.

"Yeah, it was," I reply, hands twisting the strap of my purse. My eyes flick to my front door and back to Edward's face. He licks his lips and my stomach flips.

"I'm, uh, going to walk you to your door, but…" He trails off, his eyes dropping to my mouth. "I want to kiss you again, and I don't really want to do it on your porch."

"Okay," I say, wondering absently what it is about Edward that brings out the seventeen-year-old in me.

"Okay," he says, but makes no move, and I bite my lip. "But I also don't want to kiss you if it would be…taking advantage."

"Okay," I say again, angling myself slightly toward him, and he smirks.

"You know, the body can metabolize one shot of liquor an hour. Something tells me those margaritas have more than a shot of tequila in them, and that your tiny frame is probably feeling pretty good from the effects of two of them right now."

"It is," I agree. "But not so good that you need to worry about taking advantage."

"Are you sure?" he asks, even as he turns his body toward me in a mirror image of my own posture.

"I'm sure," I reply, thankful when he doesn't argue any further.

His lips are on mine and one hand finds its way to my hair, and it's a thoroughly enjoyable replay of our previous kiss until I feel the soft tip of his tongue flick against my lower lip. I open my mouth and he takes my hint, slipping his tongue in and brushing it against mine. I whimper into the kiss, my own hand finding the back of his head as I slide my tongue against his, tasting him and his beer and the peppermint gum he slipped into his mouth as we left the restaurant. He groans as we make out in the front seat of his car, and I curse the gearshift between us as his tongue makes me a wanton pile of tequila-soaked hornball.

When he breaks the kiss, he presses his forehead to mine while we pant in unison in the darkness of his car. "You're really good at first base," I tell him, and he chuckles breathlessly.

"Ditto," he murmurs.

"I should go inside," I say, licking him from my lips. "Otherwise second base might happen in the front seat of your car."

He groans again, and I hear him swallow. "You're going to drive me crazy."

"Soon enough," I tell him as I unfasten my seat belt, his sharp eyes tracking my movements. "Stay put," I add. "I'm good."

He gives me a small nod. "Soon enough you'll drive me crazy, or soon enough we'll get to second base?" He's teasing, the smile as evident in his voice as it is on his face, and I grin as I reach for the door handle.

"Both," I say, pushing it open and throwing the car into harsh illumination. I glace back at him once more and his cheeks are flushed as always, but judging by the look in his eyes, it's got less to do with embarrassment this time. "Good night, Edward."

He smiles softly. "Good night, Bella."

* * *

"Running again?" he asks from around his whistle on Saturday morning, and I shrug as I watch his players do jumping jacks.

"I'm pretending to run. But I agreed to that second margarita last night, and if I get too ambitious the morning after, my head will be pounding louder than my feet on the concrete. I'd gratuitously call what I'm doing speed-walking." I don't tell him that I agreed to a second margarita to prolong the evening in hopes that he'd show up, and the fact that it paid off – in more ways than one – makes this morning's twinge of a hangover more than worth it.

He licks his lips. "Do you write?"

The non sequitur throws me. "I'm sorry?"

"That was very poetic. The parallel between your pounding head and pounding feet. I'm just wondering if you're a teacher who actually moonlights as the next Great American Novelist."

"Oh." I'm glad I'm flushed already, because that would do it. "No. I don't. Those who can't do, and all."

"Hm." He considers me for a moment longer before wrapping his lips around the tip of the whistle and giving it a quick blast before spitting it out to dangle against his chest. Now that I'm intimately acquainted with those lips and tongue, and well aware of what they can do, I'm jealous of a tiny piece of black plastic. "Cool down!" he calls to the team and hitches his head toward the mesh bag and the loose soccer balls scattered nearby.

"C'mon. Help me with the ball bag." His eyebrows leap, his cheeks flush, and I grin, pleased beyond belief that I can actually have fun with his unintentional innuendos now.

"Gladly."

He licks his lips again and stares at me for a beat before walking toward the equipment. "So. Can I buy you breakfast this time?"

"Depends. Are you going to have a chick-meal, or a manly meal? Because my delicate female ego doesn't need to watch you eating like a bird while I have maple syrup dripping down my chin."

"Now there's a visual," he says just barely loud enough for me to hear, and I smirk as I hold the mesh bag open.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Coach," I tease as he flicks a ball up with his toe and volleys it toward me. I hold the bag open beneath it and it falls in. "Nice shot."

"Here we go," he says, flicking a second ball up; this one falls in as well.

"Two for two," I say as he steps toward a third ball.

"Yeah, Coach!" one of the boys yells from the sideline where they're all scattered and stretching. Edward smiles as he flicks another ball up and into the bag.

"Three," I say, and he flicks and volleys again.

"Four." And again.

"Five." Three more.

"Six. Seven Eight."

The last ball is a few steps away. As Edward moves toward it, I lower my voice so that he's the only one who can hear me. "Nail this and it's second base tonight," I murmur as he flicks it up, and at my words, he misjudges the volley and it hits the side of the ball bag and drops back to the grass. I smirk at him. "Aw. Too bad."

"Bella Swan, you fight dirty," he mutters, but he's smiling.

I grin. "You have no idea."

* * *

"French toast?" Cora asks, and I nod and look expectantly at Edward.

"Two," he says with a small smile at me, and she nods and disappears.

"So, I blew my shot at second base, huh?" he asks, sliding his mug of coffee closer to him and wrapping his hand around it.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance as I sip my ice water. "I don't know. You can probably redeem yourself."

"Hm," he says by way of a reply, sipping his coffee as his eyes stay focused on my face. "You should know that I'm very goal-oriented," he says, lowering his mug back to the table and licking his lips.

"I'm thrilled to hear that," I tell him, and despite his bravado, his cheeks darken slightly. The seeming contradictions of confident coach Edward and blushing boyfriend Edward are spinning in my brain, and I am powerless to tamp down on my curiosity any longer. "So," I say, trying to determine an appropriate place from which to take a shameless swan dive into his personal life. "We're…dating," I begin, surprised suddenly by how nervous I am. Edward must be rubbing off on me. Ha.

"We are," he says, though his eyes flick between my face and the tabletop. "I mean, if that's okay with you. If you're…interested in that."

"I am," I confirm, and he smiles slightly.

"Okay."

"And you're on board with the whole…taking it slow thing."

His short chuckle sounds almost self-deprecating. "Bella, slow is the only speed I've ever taken it."

I turn this over in my mind for a few moments before realizing I have no idea what, exactly, that means. "Me too," I offer finally, because it's true. "I wasn't kidding when I said I didn't do anything in high school." I chew my lip as I consider just how forthcoming I want to be, then decide to go all in. "I mean, I know we were sort of kidding the other night, but this really does feel like the first time all over again, in a sense."

"It does," he agrees. "Maybe it's a side effect of where we spend every day, but I can't deny that you make me feel like I'm a teenager." To hear that I'm affecting him the same way he's affecting me makes me feel validated more than I could have anticipated. I continue to gnaw on my lips, and he notices. "What?" he asks gently, and I shake my head. He smiles slightly, though a concerned frown pulls his brows together slightly. "Bella, what is it?"

"Nothing, I just…when I said 'do-over,' I didn't really think about how true that was. I…most of my firsts were really anticlimactic." This revelation is more candid than I meant to be, but his face softens, and the tender way he's looking at me makes something entirely different quell up in me. I've found him attractive, sexy, intriguing since the beginning; this is the first time I'm seeing something different in those blue-green eyes that has next to nothing to do with the fact that I wouldn't mind seeing him sans pants.

"Well, I think it's time we rectify that, then," he says.

"Yeah?"

He swallows. "My firsts were…well, not exactly anticlimactic, but…" He seems to be struggling for the word, so I wait. "Regimented," he settles on finally, and I have no idea what the hell _that_ means, but I opt to let him guide the conversation for the time being. "And…there weren't many of them. I mean…" He pauses to take a sip of his coffee; when he returns the mug to the table, he rolls his shoulders. "There weren't many firsts, I guess. I mentioned my long-term girlfriend who was my 'first-first'. And she was actually…my only." He seems embarrassed by this admission, and I'm stunned. I'm also wondering how recent this break-up was. As if he's read my mind, he hastens to clarify. "I mean, we broke up a while ago. Almost a year ago, actually. But like I said, I didn't want to get involved in any small-town gossip, so…" He trails off, seeming flustered, so I finally step in.

"Okay. So. Then we're on the same page," I say, and he looks relieved. "I mean, it won't be the same because…well, y'know. It's not like things will be _real_ firsts, but…"

"Well, some things might be," he says, and his cheeks are aflame as he is suddenly steadfastly refusing to look at me.

"Explicate, please."

"I'm just saying. You know. Maybe there are some things…" He trails off awkwardly, and I'm considering getting him a cold compress for his cheeks when the implication of his words hits me with its full weight.

"Oh! Okay, yeah, that's…definitely not on the table," I say, shuddering at the thought. There are some things that are kinky and fun and others that just…no.

"Okay," he says quickly, his face aflame. "Sorry. Sure. I understand."

"Is that…" I trail off; now that the immediate and knee-jerk reaction has passed, I'm sort of stunned. That Edward – salad-only, blushes-at-the-drop-of-a-hat Edward – would be curious about anal sex strikes me as way out of left field. "Is that really something you'd want to…do? I mean…at some point? Not like…now. Or soon. Or maybe…at all. But…" I trail off again. There's no tactful way to say some things, and "You seriously want to stick your dick in my ass?" is a prime example. Added to which, saying it to Edward might tip the ever-precariously balanced scales between an uncomfortable blush and a full-fledged cardiac episode.

He shrugs, and he won't meet my eye. "I just…it was something all the guys I went to school with talked about all the time, but it was something Emily – that was my girlfriend, sorry – never wanted to do. I'm sorry." He's beyond flustered now, shredding his napkin into confetti, and the table is trembling where his knee is bouncing incessantly beneath it.

I frown. "Wow. I never would have pegged boarding school boys as the anal sex types," I say, and before I can make a crack about my inadvertent use of the word "pegged," his eyes fly to mine.

"What?!" he all but yelps, and suddenly I'm wearing my ice water. "Shit," he hisses. "Holy shit. Oh, God." He's yanking napkins from the dispenser and thrusting them at me as I shiver and attempt to blot as much water as possible before it can seep through the thin cotton of my leggings. "I'm so sorry. Jesus." Thankfully, the trajectory of most of the water hit the floor to my left, and as a result my outer left leg is drenched, but at least I don't look like I peed myself.

"It's okay," I say, still blotting my pants.

"I, uh, really wasn't talking about…" He hesitates, his face on fire. "_That_. I don't want…_that._ Jesus."

"Then what…" I frown as I attempt to reroute, then frown even deeper as suspicion creeps in. It's not possible. "Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you implying you've never had a blow job?"

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but his blush deepens. Jesus, his girlfriend must have been a real prude; they moved across the country together, for crying out loud. "Yes," he admits, wiping the small pool of water off the table as he avoids my eye.

"How is that possible?"

"She…didn't want to," he says haltingly. "I don't know. We dated for two years before we ever had sex, and then we just…did that. She didn't really want…other stuff. She was very…conservative." His lips twist slightly, as if his word choice is an epic understatement, but I don't press because I'm pretty sure he's about two embarrassing words away from an honest-to-God anxiety attack.

"Okay," I say, feeling beyond guilty for where my mind went. Sometimes I'm a real pervert. "Well." I reach across the table and lace my fingers with his. "That is _definitely_ on the table."

When he looks at me again, his eyes are nearly as fiery as his cheeks, and I suspect we're going to need to round those bases a little faster than I originally thought.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Next time:_

"**Okay. We need to redirect this back to lesson planning before I really do strain something."**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"Okay. We need to redirect this back to lesson planning before I really do strain something."

**Acknowledgement: **Eternal gratitude to HollettLA, who takes care of my wine allotment while I drink her coffee allocation. Basically, she's the yin to my yang. (Also, I "fixed" this a little bit after she worked her magic, so the mistakes are mine.)

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Here's the thing about faculty meetings: they have a tendency to turn into alarmingly similar representations of classrooms, with teachers as the unruly students and the principal and vice principal as the ones attempting to placate the masses. As I step into the library Monday afternoon, I sigh; I just know that today's meeting is going to delve into a bitch-fest of epic proportions about the lack of adequate parking in the teachers' lot, as it has during the past two meetings. Not particularly caring about that issue – at least, not enough to get worked up about it – I resign myself to the fact that I'll probably spend the majority of the meeting fighting the desire to roll my eyes. I sort of forget until I cross the threshold that this is my first faculty meeting since really getting to know Edward, and when I spy him sitting toward the back with empty seats on either side of him, I smile. He spots me and returns the sentiment, gesturing toward the chair beside him.

"You're not going to believe what's showing at the movie house this week," he says in lieu of a more traditional greeting as I slide into the vacant seat to his left.

"What?" I ask, noting the fact that Shelly Cope is watching us with a gleeful half-smile from across the room, where she's poised to take the so-called minutes of the weekly faculty meeting. I've long suspected that she doodles in the margins instead, as I can't imagine anyone ever actually requesting to review said "minutes."

"_Gone with the Wind_," he muses, and I laugh as I pull out a small notepad and a pen.

"No way."

"Way."

"Bummer," I say, flipping to a blank page. "Angela's not a huge fan either."

"Huge fan of what?" the woman in question asks as she takes the seat beside me.

"_Gone with the Wind_," I reply. "It's showing this week."

She makes a face. "Yeah. Once was enough for me with that one."

Edward's knee is bouncing and his fingers are drumming on his thigh. "I, uh, have another idea, though," he says. "Have you ever been to the Port Orchard Drive-In?"

"I have not," I say, glancing at Angela who is trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"Would you like to?" He glances across me at Angela, who is watching with her poorly-hidden smile and absolutely no shame. "I mean, I realize that the classic movies are you ladies' thing, and I don't want to intrude, but I was wondering if Angela might let me steal you this week, since neither of you is particularly fond of _Gone with the Wind_. The drive-in is showing _Casablanca_ on Wednesday night."

"She wouldn't mind at all," Angela pipes up before I have a chance to respond, and I bite my lip against a smile. One of the things I love most about my friends is how low-maintenance they are.

I nod to Edward, but before I can give him a verbal yes, the principal calls the meeting to order and prefaces it with a review of upcoming deadlines and the standardized test schedule. "Is there anything from the floor before we get to the first agenda item?" he asks, and I'm somewhat surprised when Edward raises his hand.

"Um, actually, I have a request," he says, rising from his seat. "It's come to my attention that in past years, there has been a decline in student-athletes' grades during the spring semester, particularly among the seniors." There are a few murmurs of acknowledgement from the teachers, and he nods. "Okay. Well, I'd like to be proactive and avoid that before it starts this year. If you would all be agreeable, I'd like to start a mandatory student-athlete study hall one day a week in lieu of practice. After school, the players will head to the library instead of the locker rooms to do homework or study; I've talked with Coach Miller, and she's on board to have the girls' team do the same. The only thing I need, besides your approval, Principal Taylor, is the agreement of the teachers." Edward looks around the room at our fellow educators. "I'd like the student-athletes to be able to request special help in subjects in which they're struggling, and for teachers to volunteer to be on-hand after school to help. We're contractually obligated to be here for after-school planning anyway, so I'm not asking anyone to put in more hours; I just think that the kids might be more proactive about asking for help if they're required to be here after school, regardless."

My mind flits to Coach Clapp, who, instead of aiming to make his kids study harder or be more diligent about turning in assignments, would simply knock on teachers' doors and attempt to guilt or bully them into bumping kids' grades up a few points. As I glance around the room, I can see varying degrees of respect on the teachers' faces; I'm sure that many of them, like me, are remembering Edward's predecessor and his decidedly old-school approach to education. A swell of pride rises up in me as I look back up at Edward, and the teachers around us make assorted noises of agreement. "Thanks," he says easily, gifting them with a smile. "I appreciate the support." I look around again, and it's hard to miss the furtive glances that some of my fellow female educators are tossing Edward's way. Respect combined with something else entirely – something else with which I'm entirely familiar.

I feel my lips twitch as I fight back a smile and gently nudge his shoulder with mine. "Nice job," I whisper as Principal Taylor starts reminding us about the importance of locking the doors to our classrooms when we aren't in them.

Edward beams down at me and nudges me back. "Thanks."

I turn my focus to the front, still hyperaware of the man next to me.

Good-looking as all get out? Check.

Sweet, smart, and funny? Checkity-check-check.

Ethical, motivated, and a genuinely great teacher? Mother-fricking-_checkmate._

* * *

"You'll be thrilled to hear that I have a turkey sandwich for lunch today," Edward says when I appear at the threshold of his office door on Tuesday for our weekly planning session.

"Hm," I reply, tapping my lip with a finger in consideration. "Does it have mayonnaise on it?"

"Mustard," he replies, an amused half-smile on his lips.

I nod. "I'll consider that progress."

"Terrific," he muses, and I laugh as I find my way to his couch.

"Week three," I say as I attempt to make myself comfortable. A skirt was a bad idea for a day in which I'm sitting in something with the general support of a beanbag chair, but the way Edward glances quickly at my legs before refocusing on his plan book makes it more than worth it.

"Reproductive health and sexually transmitted diseases," he recites as he looks at his book.

"Right," I agree. "The lesson in which the visual aids can singlehandedly turn them off sex for at least a week."

Edward snorts. "Just a week?"

"They're teenagers," I remind him, and he nods.

"Right. Of course. Bunnies in springtime, and all that."

"Exactly."

"Still, nothing like a good photo of raging genital warts to kill the mood."

I laugh as I flip to the appropriate page in the teacher's text and shudder when the photo to which Edward's referring is staring back up at me. "Truer words were never spoken," I agree. Even having helped teach this curriculum for a good few years now, and even as a supposedly mature adult, the photos still make me cringe. "So again, I think it's important to start by pointing out that it's not just vaginal sex that can lead to—" I pause to gesture at the photos in my lap "—this."

Edward nods. "Absolutely."

"We should remind them that you can get sexually transmitted infections from oral sex, and that using protection during that is just as important as using it during intercourse."

Edward's still nodding, the now-familiar tinge of pink sitting high on his cheeks. My mind dances momentarily to his confession over breakfast, and it's a crying shame that this man has never had a blow job. There's an exceptionally whorish part of my brain that momentarily envisions sinking to my knees beneath the desk in his office and rectifying that tragic oversight. It's the same part of my brain that sandwiches erotic fiction between rereads of Harper Lee and Mark Twain, the lusty part that finds bondage fascinating in theory, but wildly intimidating in hypothetical practice. The part that entertains the notion, but would never have the theoretical balls to actually do it – after all, there are few things that will get a teacher fired faster than engaging in sex acts on school property during school hours. I may be horny, but I'm not completely devoid of sense.

"Yeah," he says finally. "And since we're covering pregnancy and contraception next week, maybe we limit this discussion to birth control methods that do prevent STDs and leave ones like the pill for next time."

I nod. "Perfect. So…basically, we'll do the male condom demo and talk about things like dental dams and female condoms."

He mirrors my nod and hesitates for a beat before speaking again. "Okay, another confession: I've never even seen a dental dam or a female condom."

I shrug. "Me either. Outside of the literature for this particular curriculum."

"Do they even _have_ those at pharmacies?" he wonders aloud.

"My guess would be no, but the Clallam County Planned Parenthood clinic is probably a pretty good bet." He nods, and I can't resist the temptation. "You're well-equipped to handle the male condom part of the demonstration, though, I assume." I'm only half-teasing him; in reality, I'm trying to make him blush. Now that I'm not worried about completely alienating him, I can freely admit that I'm sort of getting my rocks off on watching him squirm.

"Very well-equipped," he says, and while the tips of his ears are pink, he's meeting my eye. Before I can stop myself, my eyes drop to his lap before immediately moving to the side, but he doesn't miss it. "Oh, you are so busted."

"Excuse me?" I say, aiming for indignation, though I suspect the flushing of my own face undermines my mock offense considerably. "Busted for what?"

"You know very well what," he murmurs, and I force myself to meet his gaze.

"Now who's fighting dirty?"

He smirks. "I'm learning."

"I'll say."

His smirk widens to a grin and he redirects his focus to the lesson planning. "The, uh, models for the condom demo…are there enough for everyone to have his or her own?"

I nod. "Yeah. One good call Coach Clapp made when he was ordering that stuff: he didn't think it was appropriate to expect them to work in pairs on that particular project."

Edward nods. "Excellent call." He frowns slightly. "Where are they, anyway?"

I match his frown. "You know, I have no idea. I'd assumed they were in his office somewhere." I cast about the small space, which has been growing steadily more organized with each passing day, but I see nothing that looks like a box of phalluses.

"They might be in one of the boxes at the top of the closet," he says more to himself than to me and rises from his chair to open the narrow door in the rear corner of his office. From what I can glimpse around him, the closet is crammed with a filing cabinet with a mini fridge atop it and a collection of boxes teetering on the top shelf. "Any of these look particularly promising?" He asks over his shoulder, and I rise to stand beside him. As I gaze up at the boxes, I recognize the brand name on the side of a smaller one near the top of the stack.

"That one, I think," I say as I point. "Pretty sure that's the company." He nods and drags his desk chair over; once he's retrieved the box and dumped it on the floor, we each return to our seats and he opens the flaps to pull out one of the model "penises."

"Whoa," he says as he considers it, and I pretend not to notice the way his long fingers wrap around it.

"Whoa, what?" I ask.

"Very…" He trails off, apparently searching for the right word; finally, he settles on "clinical."

I nod. "I think they were going for anatomically correct without being sexually explicit."

"Hmm."

"Personally, I think they missed the mark."

"How so?" he asks, still studying the white plastic phallus.

"It looks like a dildo." The moment the word is past my lips, he drops the faux-pecker and pushes himself ever-so-slightly back from the box. I arch a teasing brow as he glances up at me before frowning back down at the box. "Sorry. Reflex."

"Uh-huh."

"That hadn't actually occurred to me."

"Clearly."

"Do they actually look like…?" He pauses to wave a hand in the direction of the box. "That?"

I shrug. "Some do." He seems to be considering this, but his frown appears to be deepening in degrees. "Edward?"

"Yeah."

"You look like you're about to strain something."

He shakes his head. "No, no. I just, uh…" He cups the back of his neck.

"What?" I ask when it becomes clear he's not going to volunteer anything more.

Another head shake; this time, he closes his eyes as his face flames. "Now I have a, uh, mental image of you. With one."

And my cheeks match his. "Oh. Whoops."

"Yeah." He opens his eyes and offers me a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

I shrug. "It's okay. That's, uh, allowed. You know, since we're…" I trail off and he swallows.

"Probably not ideal to imagine it during school hours, though."

A relieved chuckle bubbles up in my throat. "No, probably not."

"You..." He cups the back of his neck. "You have one?"

I smirk. "Edward, any single woman over the age of twenty-five who says she doesn't is either a prude or a liar."

He clears his throat. "Okay. Well, that's good to know." He's back to eyeing the box, and as I lean forward slightly, he meets my eye. "Was that payback?" he asks with an impish smile.

"For what?"

"The dirty fighting."

I grin. "Unintentionally, but I think it worked out rather nicely."

He shakes his head in mock disapproval before blowing out a breath and stretching his arms out in front of him. "Okay. We need to redirect this back to lesson planning before I really do strain something."

"Okay."

"Okay. So we'll talk about the different infections, then cover the protection aspect, and then emphasize the importance of getting tested prior to engaging in any sexual contact, and certainly after having any kind of unprotected encounter."

I nod in agreement. "Sounds good." I shift slightly on the plaid sofa as he pushes the box of models to one side with his foot. "Honestly, Edward, if it weren't required by the state, you wouldn't even need me for these lessons. You're nailing them."

"Thanks," he says, leaning back in his chair and retrieving his sandwich from the lunch sack near his desk calendar. "But I don't think you realize how much you've helped. Really." His smile widens. "And getting to spend a lunch hour a week with a pretty girl is a nice bonus." I attempt to hide my smile by digging my ham and cheese sandwich from my own bag as he continues speaking. "So…when we emphasize the importance of getting tested, we should also point out that communication is once again key…that they shouldn't leave that talk until the heat of the moment."

"Good point," I say, taking a bite of my sandwich.

He nods as he unwraps his lunch, and his knee is bouncing. "So, um. I'm good."

I frown. "I'm sorry?"

He scratches his chin. "In the testing department. I'm, uh, clear. Clean." He cringes slightly, but exhales heavily when he sees comprehension dawn on my face.

"Oh! Oh." I shouldn't give him so much shit about blushing; I'm pretty sure my face is worse than his has ever been. "Right. Okay. Um, well, me too."

He nods quickly and studies his sandwich, as if debating which corner to bite first. "Okay. Cool."

"Okay," I say again, and take another bite of my food.

"Sorry," he says almost instantly. "That was…wildly uncouth. I just…"

I shake my head to stall his self-censure. "No, no, it was, um, actually very relevant. I mean…considering what we talked about at breakfast." His eyes are nearly as heated as his face, and for a not-so-brief moment, I wish I were the kind of girl who would, in fact, get on my knees in his office. I consider my half of a sandwich for a moment before I shift on the crappy sofa. "And, like you said…communication is key, right? I know that being blunt isn't really your style, but just so you know…you can with me. Say whatever." I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say, except that the last thing I want to do is to make him _less_ comfortable than he seems to be getting. "Whatever you're comfortable with," I amend and take a bite of my food.

He seems to be mulling this over for a moment before he puts his sandwich down on his desk and leans forward in his chair, propping his elbows on his knees. "Bella, I want to be clear about something." He scoots his chair forward slightly, and one of the wheels squeaks. I meet his eye. "I'm not at all uncomfortable with my sexuality, or sexuality in general."

I nod. "Okay."

"I'm…well, uncomfortable isn't the right word, but I guess I'd say I'm sensitive to yours."

I frown. "You lost me."

He blows out a breath and scratches his temple. "I know I implied before that my previous relationship wasn't very, uh…experimental."

_There's an understatement._ Thankfully, I don't voice this thought, and instead simply say, "You did."

He nods. "Well, I know I also implied that that was a result of Emily's wishes." I nod again. "I should preface this by saying that I'm a phys ed teacher, not a psychiatrist, but…Emily was sexually assaulted as a teenager. As a result, I think, of that incident, control in that aspect of her life was very important to her."

Guilt at my previous assessment of his ex-girlfriend as a frigid prude floods me, and I cringe inwardly. "Wow. Well, that's definitely understandable."

He nods. "I never wanted to…push. At all. Maybe I should have tried to get her to push herself, but…" He trails off and shrugs. "Making sure she felt safe was always of tantamount importance to me. The, uh, sex stuff – that was sort of secondary." He smiles slightly. "That's not to say I was never curious about…more. But…" He trails off again. "Anyway. I just wanted you to know. I wouldn't want my lack of assertiveness to come across as disinterest or insecurity. I'm just…I'm used to the woman setting the pace, and I guess I've deferred to that in the past."  
"Oh." Not the wittiest of responses, but seriously: what else do you say to something like that? "That's…well. Very gentlemanly."

He chuckles. "You should tell me now if you have an aversion to chivalry. I'll work on toning it down."

I shake my head, relieved at his lightness. "I don't. Definitely not. It's just…new."

He nods. "As is your…openness." He smiles. "New, but definitely not unwelcome."

"Ditto."

"More firsts," he says cheekily, and I grin.

"Maybe we should start keeping a list."

* * *

When we are halfway to Port Orchard on Wednesday afternoon, it begins to rain. Big, fat raindrops splat sporadically against the windshield, and Edward's forehead creases in a concerned frown. "Do they cancel drive-in movies if it's raining?"

"I have no idea. I've never been."

"Me either," he says absently, craning his neck to peer through the windshield at the sky, which is growing darker the farther we drive.

"Hey!" I exclaim, and he turns a surprised face to me. "We're losing our drive-in virginity together!"

He grins. "Hey, nice. We can check that one off the list."

"Weather permitting, of course."

"Yeah," he says, peering at the sky again. "This might be the first time I experience the cancellation of a movie due to inclement weather."

When we arrive at the drive-in movie lot, Edward rolls down his window to greet the ticket-taker at the entrance. "Hey," he says as he angles his body to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. "You guys still open?"

The man nods. "Yeah. Movie will roll as long as there's no lightning and the rain doesn't get too heavy to see through. If it does, we'll give you a voucher to come back."

"Cool," Edward says, accepting the tickets. I sort of love the dorky way he says, "Cool." He hands me the stubs and slides his wallet back into his pocket.

"Tune your FM radio to 97.1," the guy says. "That's where you'll pick up the sound."

"Thanks," Edward says, rolling up his window as we pull through the gate and into the grassy lot fringed by towering evergreens and fronted by an enormous white screen.

Taking his cue from the obvious drive-in movie veterans lined up in improvised rows, Edward parks in reverse so that the tailgate is facing the screen. The raindrops have halted, at least for the time being, and everyone in an SUV or a pickup truck is settled into the flatbed or tailgate awaiting the start of the movie.

"This is really cool," I say, glancing around at our fellow moviegoers.

"Give me one second," Edward says before opening his door and hopping out; I hear the tailgate door open and twist to see him chucking a duffel bag, a First Aid kid, and a roadside emergency kit onto the backseat. "Okay," he says after another moment of rummaging. "Come on."

I slide out of my seat and round the car to see that he's spread a couple of striped towels out on the floor of the tailgate and has a few more rolled up as backrests against the back of the backseat. "Very cozy," I say, accepting the hand he offers to help me climb into the back of his car. Thank God I opted for jeans instead of another dress. My mind dances momentarily to our first kiss, and Edward's initial assessment of my "do-over" plan. As I situate myself, I smirk at him. "Is this all a part of your nefarious plan to dry-hump me in the back of your car?"

As expected, his cheeks flush; now, however, the flush is accompanied by a heat in his eyes that makes me pretty certain I'd let him any-kind-of-hump me in the back of any car he wanted. "I wish I were that forward-thinking," he says, climbing up into the back of his car and settling beside me.

I laugh as I make myself comfortable and reach into my purse to retrieve a bag of gummy bears and a box of Goobers. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking; I should have brought granola," I tease him, and he rolls his eyes. "Are you a chocolate type or a sugary type?" I ask, holding up both treats.

"I'm an equal opportunity kind of guy," he replies. "Though I was recently enlightened as to the health benefits of chocolate."

As I pop the perforated spout on the box of Goobers and tip a few into his hand, I swallow. "Can I be nosy?"

"Of course you can," he says easily, and I peek at him sideways before taking a pause to tip a few Goobers into my hand and set the box down. I pour the candy into my mouth and chew as I muster up the courage. As if sensing my hesitation, Edward's free hand finds mine in the space between us.

"That…thing you've never done? That we talked about at breakfast?"

Blush. "Yeah."

"I know you were never on the…receiving end." I pause to see if he clues in; thankfully, he's sharp enough to follow my rather obvious implication.

"Yeah, no." He shakes his head, his eyes trained on our joined hands. "Not on the giving end, either."

"Wow."

"Have, uh, you? Been on…both sides?"

"Yeah," I say, wondering how it is that having had oral sex with one guy in my entire life can make me feel slutty by comparison. "Just once. Well, I mean…one guy. More than one time." My face matches his.

"Okay," he says, tracing my knuckles with his thumb for a few beats before he looks up and finds my eyes. Before I can dig for any more details on his sexual history or his evidently prudish ex-girlfriend, the radio goes from doo-wop favorites to an announcement welcoming moviegoers to the drive-in, and we turn our focus to the enormous screen, which is counting down to the start of the movie. Now, in addition to feeling like I'm seventeen, I feel like I'm in the 1950s.

As _Casablanca_ begins, far more of my brain is focused on the rhythmic pass of his thumb over mine than on the movie, and I inch myself slightly closer to him until my side is flush with his. He releases my hand and lifts his arm in invitation; as I settle into his side, he drapes his arm over the backrest of the seat and his hand comes to rest on my shoulder.

Just as Sam begins to play "As Time Goes By" onscreen, the intermittent splats of raindrops ping against the open tailgate, and I glance to the side to see the couple in the flatbed of the pickup truck next to us gazing dubiously up at the sky. The occasional drops increase slightly in frequency as we continue to watch the movie, and after about ten minutes I see the neighboring couple start to pack up their stuff. Just as they relocate to the cab of the truck and start their engine, the rain begins to fall in earnest, and while the screen is still very much visible, the air begins to feel damp, and I can see a few drops of water on the toes of Edward's sneakers, which dangle outside the car. Noticing my look, he bends his legs and pulls his sneakers off, dumping them on the backseat and rearranging himself so that he's sitting cross-legged. I stay pressed to his side, and we watch as the onscreen house band begins to play "_La Marseillaise_."

As the rain continues, Edward finally removes his arm from around me. "Hang on," he says, leaning forward to pull the hatch closed, then clambering over the backseat to flip a switch on the dashboard that makes the single wiper on the back window sporadically clear the gathering drops from the glass. Edward resettles beside me, and I can't deny the small thrill that shoots through me when he doesn't hesitate to return his arm to where it was, and I fit myself back into his side. It feels so…couple-y.

By the time Isla pulls a gun on Rick, the rain is coming down in sheets.

Edward laughs. "Okay, this is ridiculous. I officially can't see the screen anymore."

"Me either," I say, echoing his laugh as I squint around us. "A lot of cars are gone." As I say the words, I realize that while the pickup truck that had once been to our right left long ago, the TrailBlazer that was to our left has also departed, leaving us in a small circle of open space. I look over at Edward, who is squinting at the screen.

"Hey."

"Yeah." He turns to face me, and after a brief moment, his eyes drop to my lips. I curl a hand around the back of his neck in invitation, and he licks his lips as he twists his body toward me. While I realize that kissing Edward is still new and exciting, I can't imagine that I'd ever tire of it. And, considering what his lips are capable of doing to my mouth, I momentarily pity the woman who opted not to let him put them on other parts of her body. His tongue slides against mine, and I think chocolate and Edward might be the best combination I've ever tasted.

Suddenly his hand is on my hip, tugging at me gently, and I take his cue to scoot my body down, abandoning the backrest and reclining entirely. He follows my movements, his mouth still attached to mine as he scoots down and hovers over me. After a few more kisses, he pulls his mouth from mine and presses it to the hinge of my jaw; I can feel his humid breaths puffing against the skin of my neck. He's breathless, and I'm his. "Is this okay?" he whispers, and I want to tell him it's so much more than okay.

"Yes," is all I can get out before he's kissing me again, his hand trailing from my hip up my side and around to the nape of my neck. His mouth slants over mine, and the sounds of our kisses mingle with the low soundtrack of the movie and the dull roar of rain hitting the roof of the car. Just as I've convinced myself that I could kiss Edward for hours on end and never want for anything more, I feel his hand leave my neck and trail back down to my hip for a beat before sliding up my back again. When it slides back to my waist, I reach down and claim it, holding it for a beat before guiding it up to my right breast.

He groans into my mouth as his fingers clutch at me through my blouse, his thumb tracing where my nipple is very nearly evident even through the minimal padding of my bra. I suddenly wish I were the type of woman who wears skimpy-thin undergarments so that I could feel more of his touch. "Bella," he murmurs as he pulls his mouth away, dropping his lips to my throat. "I was right," he mumbles into my skin. "You are driving me crazy."

"Ditto," I tell him, angling my head to give him better access to my neck. "So crazy."

His lips move from my neck to the small "v" of skin above the top button of my blouse, and I'm so focused on his lips that I nearly miss his warm fingers slipping beneath the hem of my shirt and sliding up the skin of my stomach. He reaches the underwire of my bra and hesitates. "Can I…" he mumbles against my sternum, and I nod as I gaze at the gray ceiling of his car.

"Yes," I pant, and when his fingers slide beneath the cup of my bra, I'm incapable of stopping my body from arching up against him. His thumb grazes across my nipple and he moans as he slides his nose and mouth up the side of my neck. Just as he gently pinches and rolls my peaked flesh, his hand disappears, sliding around my body and following the strap of my bra to the middle of my back.

"It's in the front," I say in permission, and his fingers trace the strap back to the front as his mouth covers mine again. To my delight, he doesn't fumble; I feel the tension give way as the clasp between my breasts is freed. His hand is back, moving over my skin, his thumb teasing my pebbled nipple as I gasp into his mouth. Too soon, his fingers disappear, trailing down my stomach only to reappear at the bottom button of my blouse.

"Can I…" he breathes again, and I nod as his lips move back to the hollow beneath my ear. I feel electric as he methodically works his way up, slipping each tiny mother-of-pearl button from its hole. When the line of buttons is undone, he pulls back to gaze down into my face before dropping his eyes and sliding one lapel aside.

His lips are swollen and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are heated as he gazes down at me. "God," he breathes, reaching up once again to run a thumb over my nipple. "You're so perfect," he says softly, pushing the other side of my shirt open to uncover my other breast. "So perfect," he says again, licking his lips. I reach up to cup the back of his neck, but before I can drag his mouth back to mine, he lowers his head and takes my nipple into his mouth.

"Oh, God," I gasp, my eyes falling closed as his tongue toys with me, and just as I'm reaching for the hem of his shirt, I'm yanked from my aroused stupor by the sound of knuckles rapping on the window. My eyes fly open, and through the rivulets of rain sliding down the tinted glass, I can just make out a figure standing beneath a black umbrella.

"Shit," Edward gasps, yanking both sides of my shirt closed over my chest, and a surge of affection joins the steady rush of arousal that is still coursing through me. He lifts himself up and follows my gaze out the window to where the rather indistinct figure makes a "move along" gesture with his or her hand before wandering off. As I gaze around, I realize that ours is the only car left in the lot, that the screen has gone dark, and that the radio is no longer playing anything but static.

I re-clasp my bra as Edward chuckles, running a hand through the hair that, thanks to my hands, looks rather like a bird's nest. As I button my shirt, his fingers ghost a touch over my cheek and he leans down to place a soft, chase kiss to my mouth before pulling back with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Well, nothing will make you feel like a teenager quite like being busted hooking up in the back of a car," he says, and I laugh.

"Truth."

He glances out at the rain once more before inclining his chin toward the front seat. "Do you think you can climb back up? We'll get soaked if we have to get out."

"Yeah," I say, sitting up and scrambling back up to the passenger seat.

Edward follows, and I hear a pained grunt; when I look back, he's semi-straddling the backrest of the bench seat with an anguished look on his face as he tries to get his other leg over it. "Probably harder with long legs," I allow, and he blushes.

"Yeah, um, my legs aren't really the problem," he says, and I grin.

"Good thing you're a gherkin-jerker from way back, then, huh?"

"I was right about you," he grumbles as he wedges himself between the front seats and flops into the driver's seat. "Dirty fighter."

"I told you," I say with an impertinent shrug, delighted when he captures my hand in the space between us as we drive off the lot.

Second base: check.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Thanks also to everyone who voted for "The Practicum" in The Lemonade Stand's "Fic of the Week" poll and to Nic for recommending it. There were some truly great stories included; check them out: tehlemonadestand dot net_


	8. Chapter 8

**The Practicum**

**Rating:** M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary:** "So you _didn't_ have a dirty thought when I said 'beef burrito'?" His cheeks match his ears, and I point an accusing finger. "I knew it."

**Acknowledgement: **As always, thanks to HollettLA, who shares my scars from the horrifying STD visual aids from high school health class. ::shudder::

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"Morning," I say to Edward when our paths cross in the hallway as we're making our way to the health classroom on Thursday morning. I'm not sure whether it's because I caught him by surprise or not, but when he glances up at me, his eyes dart from my eyes and down to my chest before flying back to my face and – yep – he blushes.

"Morning," he replies, licking his lips as I fall into step beside him.

"I saw that," I say lowly.

"Saw what?" he asks, but his cheeks are still flushed and he's studiously avoiding my gaze.

"The eyes are up here, bud," I tease him, and before he can reply, we have reached the door to the classroom.

"Hey, Coach," Ben greets him as he slips through the door ahead of us, and just before I cross the threshold, Edward leans over my shoulder.

"The eyes are just as beautiful as the other parts," he murmurs, and true to form, my toe catches on the doorsill and I pitch forward. Before I can face-plant on the gleaming white linoleum, however, Edward's hands catch me at the waist and right me.

"Thank you," I mutter over my shoulder, and while I'm actually thanking him for saving me from a rather spectacular wipeout, the small smirk on his face tells me he's taking it as gratitude for his comment.

"You're more than welcome."

I take my regular place beside the desk and note that the large box of models is already sitting on the floor to one side. The kids file in with Emmett, Rosalie, and Alice appearing just ahead of the ringing bell.

"All right, everyone. Seats, please." The few stragglers not yet in their desks obey and sit, and Edward dumps his books on the desk before running a hand through his hair. "Ladies and gentlemen, today we're talking about reproductive health and sexually transmitted infections. I'm going to warn you up front: a part of today's class focuses on how to protect yourselves and your partners and will include a condom demonstration. Let me be clear right from the get-go: if there is anyone who can't handle this like a mature adult, or if there are any inappropriate comments or behavior, the repercussions will be coming from Principal Taylor's office, not from me. We understood?" The class makes various noises of agreement and Edward nods. "Okay then. We'll start with the gruesome stuff. Page one-oh-seven."

The kids dutifully open their texts and flip to the pages, and the expected wave of dismayed comments fills the room.

"Dude, that's disgusting."

"Ewwwww."

"What _is_ that?"

"Gross."

Edward takes his place on the lip of the desk and holds up his hands. "Okay, okay, settle down. I know. It's not exactly the Mona Lisa. It's also not something you want to have to explain to the family doctor, so let's learn how to prevent it, okay?" I follow along as Edward lists the various sexually transmitted infections, their symptoms, and how to get treatment; the kids are relatively silent, though the looks of revulsion on their faces make me hope that they'll take the lesson to heart. Edward discusses the fact that the infections can be transmitted via all types of sexual contact, not just intercourse, and emphasizes the importance of getting tested twice after any type of sexual contact. He transitions into the birth control methods that actually prevent STDs, and once he's covered the admittedly rare female condom and dental dam, he gets to the male condom.

Bending at the waist, Edward hoists the box of model penises onto the teacher's desk and opens the flaps to retrieve a small plastic basket, which he places beside the larger cardboard box. "Guys, I'm going to reiterate this once more. Handle this like adults, please. If you can't, you're at the mercy of Principal Taylor." He pauses to cast a cautionary almost-glare around the room before nodding once. "Okay. By rows, come up and get a model from the box and a condom from the basket. Take them back to your seat and await further instructions. Do not, I repeat _do not_ make any inappropriate gestures with these models, guys. Absolutely none." He nods to Alice, who sits in the first seat of the first row. "Alice, your row can come on up." I rise and stand beside Edward, watching the students as they take models and return to their seats; thankfully, they appear to be taking Edward's thinly-veiled threat seriously. Once each of the students has a model and a condom, Edward drops the box back down to the floor and digs a fake penis out of it before snagging a rubber from the basket on the desk.

"Okay, guys. Here we go." He stands the model on the edge of the teacher's desk and holds up the wrapped condom. "Before you open the condom, check the wrapper just to be sure there are no obvious punctures or tears. If there are, discard it and get another one. Once you're sure it's okay, very carefully tear it at the perforation point." I watch as he does so; I don't think I'd ever noticed before how pretty his fingers are. And long. And pretty and long. "Gently take the condom out and inspect it closely." Edward turns and walks around so that he's now standing behind the teacher's desk so that the kids can all see the model sitting at the front edge of the desk. "Squeeze the tip of the condom to push out any air; this will leave room for the semen after ejaculation. Gently hold the tip of the condom between your thumb and forefinger and line it up and then roll it along the shaft of the erection."

_Jesus Christ._ His long fingers roll the condom down the fake dick, and I'm thrilled that the kids are distracted by their newly acquired prophylactics and mock peckers, because there's no way the heat licking up and down my body isn't obvious on my face. He holds up the now-sheathed dildo-esque model and looks around the room. "Any questions?"

The class is silent, and Edward nods in approval. "Okay. Now. When the male pulls his penis out of his partner's body, it's important that he holds onto the base of the condom so that it doesn't slip off and permit any of the semen to escape."

If I weren't still so hyper-focused on the image of Edward unrolling a rubber, I'd probably think up a joke about the escape of the killer semen to tell Jessica later, but I don't have the brainpower. "Obviously, you only use a condom once; dispose of it right away and use a new condom for any subsequent sexual interactions." He glances around once more. "All right. You guys go ahead and try it."

The kids dutifully begin unwrapping their experimental condoms, and from a quick sampling, it's pretty clear which ones of them have done this before and which ones have never seen a condom up close before. I'm pleasantly surprised that the number of truly adept members of the class appears to be limited to two.

"Don't forget to pinch the tip, guys," Edward reminds them. "If there's no reservoir at the end of the condom, it's much more likely that it will break when ejaculation occurs." I watch the kids warily, awaiting an inappropriate comment or gesture, but to my surprise, none comes. "Great," Edward says when the mock-cocks are all wrapped up. "Nicely done, guys. So. If and when you become sexually active and you opt to utilize the male condom, you are all confident in your ability to do so, yes?" Various nods and murmurs of affirmation. "Terrific." He glances up at the clock and crosses the room to grab the trash can from beside the door. "I'm going to walk around and collect the condoms; once you've dropped yours in here, you can take your model back up to the box at the front of the room. I'm leaving that basket of condoms on the desk, so if anyone would like to take a couple with him or her, have at it. Otherwise, that basket will be located in the top right-hand drawer of the desk in my office if you ever need one. Also, you can get them from the nurse's office if you are so inclined, or, obviously, from any pharmacy or drug store or Planned Parenthood-type location." Once he's back at the front of the room and all of the models are back in the box, he nods. "Great job today, guys. Thank you for handling that like adults. No homework; see you all tomorrow."

As the kids file out, Edward turns to face me with a small smile on his face and props his small stack of books on his hip. "So. May I walk you to your next class?"

I bite my lip against a grin. "It's a little out of your way," I remind him, and he shrugs.

"I'm a nut for exercise."

I lose the battle with my smile. "Okay, then." We fall into step beside each other as we make our way through the hallways, conversation made all but impossible by the cacophony of slamming lockers, teenagers babbling, and the occasional holler down the hallway. Still, the simple fact of walking beside Edward is a small thrill in and of itself, and when I feel my folder start to slip from beneath my arm, I reflexively clutch it until I realize that Edward is sliding it from my grasp. I let go, and he slips it atop his own pile of books with a smile.

"Did you watch a lot of _Happy Days_ reruns at boarding school?" I ask, though I can't stop the girlish flutter in my stomach.

"Not particularly, no."

"Hmm."

He smiles again and sidesteps a freshman wielding an enormous tuba case. We approach a locker against which one of Edward's soccer players has one of the girls' soccer players pressed, apparently trying to swallow half of her face. "Make him buy you dinner, Lauren," Edward calls, and the girl in question pulls her mouth away from her boyfriend's lips with a sheepish flush.

"Thanks, Coach," Mike grumbles, and Edward laughs as we pass.

"What a bully," I murmur, and he turns his delighted eyes on me.

"Teaching doesn't stop at the classroom door, Ms. Swan," he teases, and I roll my eyes as we reach the door to my classroom. "But I suppose it's key to lead by example."

"Example," I repeat as I draw to a halt and fold my arms across my chest.

"Example," he says again, and the hand not holding our books jingles the keys in the pocket of his slacks. "Can I buy you breakfast Saturday morning? I hear the Forks Diner does a truly terrific French toast."

"I wish," I reply. "I told my dad I'd go over tomorrow and clean a bunch of stuff out of my old room so that he can donate it to charity."

He nods. "Dinner then?" he asks, and I nod. He beams as he holds out my folder. Just as I take it from his hand, I hear Mike from over Edward's shoulder.

"Make him buy you dinner, Ms. Swan," he taunts, and I can feel the flush working its way up my neck.

Edward ignores him altogether, smiling down at me. As Mike walks away laughing, he ducks his head. "Just so you know, I find your blush entirely appealing."

"Well, just so you know…ditto."

That afternoon, when I glance out my classroom window after school, it doesn't escape my notice that Mike appears to be running solo wind sprints.

* * *

"Loving each other means taking care of each other's health," Edward says in conclusion to the second part of the birth control lesson on Friday. "Guys, if you love a girl, it's as much your responsibility not to get her pregnant as it is her responsibility not to get pregnant, and it's your responsibility to each other not to get your partner infected with anything." He looks around the room. "Got it?" The kids offer little by way of response, and Edward sighs. "I know, I know, it's Friday." He glances up at the clock on the wall. "Okay, get out of here. Soccer players, just a reminder that the bus is leaving for Rainier right after school. If you're not on it, we're leaving you behind. Spread the word." The students all but trip over each other in their haste to exit the room, and he turns to me with a smile. "I'll miss Mexican tonight," he says, and I nod.

"Mexican will miss you."

"Rainier is way too far away for me to even pretend I might make it in time."

"I'd offer to eat a boring-ass salad in your place, but I've been craving a beef burrito all week." I see him swallow and look away, and the tips of his ears are pink. "Ohhh, you went there, didn't you?"

"Went where?" he asks, but he's still not meeting my eye.

"You know where."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So you _didn't_ have a dirty thought when I said 'beef burrito'?" His cheeks match his ears, and I point an accusing finger. "I knew it."

He opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly Jasper appears in the doorway and glances between us before a knowing smirk crosses his face. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all," I tell him, my eyes still on Edward.

"Edward, can I steal you for a second? I made the mistake of planning to introduce new theorems to my freshman geometry kids on a Friday, and I need some visual aids that will preclude them from falling asleep on their desks. I figure a couple of dodge balls and cones ought to do it."

"You bet," Edward says, and I roll my eyes at his triumphant half-smile.

"Good luck tonight," I say, and he nods.

"Thanks. Have fun with the burrito." I feel my surprise on my face, but before I can determine if he's teasing me or if that was unintentional, he disappears down the hallway with Jasper.

That night, despite Jessica's best efforts, I manage to keep the details of my make-out session and boob-grope to myself, and am able to limit my margarita intake to one, which means that I'm also able to make it to Charlie's before ten o'clock Saturday morning.

"I come bearing donuts," I say as I step inside his front door, and his moustache twitches as he considers me.

"I hope that's not a not-so-subtle dig at your cop dad, Bells."

"Would I dare?" I ask, depositing the paper sack on the counter.

"Long as there's coffee as well, I'll let it slide."

"Give me some credit, pops," I reply, holding up the cardboard tray with the two enormous cups.

"Atta girl." Despite his pretend protest, he digs a donut out of the bag and steps back to lean against the doorframe of the kitchen. "Bells, you really don't have to do this. That room is fine the way it is."

I roll my eyes as I shrug out of my jacket. "Dad. You could use that room; there's no point in having all of my old junk clogging it up." He shifts his weight slightly as he inspects his food. He doesn't take a bite, and I pause in draping my coat over the back of a kitchen chair. "Dad?"

The moustache twitches again as he takes a sip of his coffee. "I just…in case you ever needed somewhere to go." He's not meeting my eye, and his truncated sentence is only confusing for a minute before a familiar affection wells up in me.

"Aw, Dad."

He shifts his weight again, and I can see that even the implication of me getting emotional is enough to make him uneasy. "It's still your room, Bella. Even if it's not your room."

"Dad." Disregarding his discomfort, I cross the kitchen that has seemed to grow smaller with each passing year and wrap my arms around his neck for a quick hug before pulling back and retrieving my own coffee. "I'll just get rid of a bunch of old crap I don't need – clothes and notebooks and stuff – and we'll make it less a shrine to sixteen-year-old Bella and more of a neutral guest room, okay?"

He seems to accept this idea and nods. "Okay," he agrees gruffly.

"Okay," I repeat and snag a donut. "I got you a paper, too; last night's write-up is in there."

"Okay," he says again. "They win?"

I grin. "Yep. 4-0." I don't realize I'm still beaming until I register the fact that Charlie's studying my face with a small frown on his own. "What?"

He squints at me. "You seem awfully pleased by that fact. That's new."

I shrug. "I just…a lot of my students are on the team this year."

"Uh-huh," he replies, and before his chief of police sixth sense can kick in, I gesture toward the staircase.

"I'll be upstairs." As I ascend to the second floor, I hear the familiar sound of a kitchen chair scraping across the linoleum. Stepping into my childhood bedroom, I take a deep breath. I was only partly kidding when I teased Charlie about the shrine; it really does look like sixteen-year-old me just popped out for the afternoon and will be back any minute. When I left for college I took the bare essentials: favorite clothes, favorite books, a few photos. When I moved back to Forks after graduating, I moved back in with Charlie until he was healthy enough to live alone. Between starting a new job and helping him with his recovery, I spent very little effort on redecorating and instead took solace in the familiarity. When I moved out again, I took what was necessary: the same clothes I'd brought back from Berkeley, the box of books I'd never unpacked, the clothing I'd acquired since starting a job as a teacher. I never moved out the things that I wanted to keep as keepsakes, because I was just across town and if I ever needed them, I knew I could just drop by and get them. As a result, the room has the feel of a time capsule.

I start with the closet, knowing that the garments I opt to keep will be few and far between. In the donation pile go old jeans, old sweaters, a few old skirts and dresses, a pile of shoes. In the small "to keep" pile go a few trip t-shirts from summers I spent traveling with Renee, the Forks Police Department sweatshirt that was embarrassing as a teenager but is now oddly appealing, and a black cardigan sweater with gray elbow patches that I once appreciated for its irony but which is now actually borderline fashionable. Once the closet is devoid of clothing, I move to the dresser: a quick scan reveals absolutely nothing I want to keep, so I dump the entire contents into the donation pile.

The books are harder. I go through the shelves and the give-away pile is pretty meager by the time I'm done sorting novels and have reached the shelf that holds my yearbooks. I smile and slide my senior year tome from its place on the shelf; lowering myself to the bed, I crack it open and immediately feel a wave of nostalgia, despite the fact that I didn't particularly enjoy that time in my life. As I flip the pages, I'm struck anew by how separate I was from it all. I didn't participate in any extracurricular activities, I didn't go to prom, I didn't date boys. I spot the grinning headshot of the beautiful boy I'd had a crush on who never even realized I walked the same Earth as he did. I try to imagine Edward on these pages, a seventeen-year-old boy with a tendency to flush pink, but I can't; Edward exists solely in the now, and I ignore the voice that suggests that if he had, in fact, existed in the then, he likely wouldn't have noticed my existence either.

"How's it going?" I hear from the doorway, and I'm pulled from my reverie to see Charlie standing at the threshold glancing at the mountain of outdated clothes and the leaning tower of books.

"Good," I say. "Trip down memory lane."

He nods and holds up a roll of plastic bags. "Thought these would work for the clothes."

"Perfect."

He holds one open while I dump them in, and when he sees the Forks hoodie atop the much smaller pile, I see one corner of his mouth curl upward beneath his moustache. "Keeping that?" he asks, and I nod, feeling a thin thread of guilt at the memory of how I'd buried it in the depths of my closet with a barely-disguised eye-roll. I recall similar reactions any time I had to ride with my dad in his cruiser, and feel more remorse at my typically teenage insensitivity.

"Yeah. I forgot it was in there." I pick it up and, after a beat, slide it over my head. Despite the fact that I didn't wear it often, the thick cotton is soft, and it still smells faintly of the industrial detergent Charlie always used. "I like it."

He clears his throat as he glances around the room, and I wonder idly if I'm destined to spend my life surrounded by ill-at-ease men. Given recent developments, I can't say that I am entirely disenchanted by the idea. "I meant what I said, Bella," he says as he eyes my now-empty bookshelf. "This is still your room, even if your stuff's gone."

"Thanks, Dad."

He nods once, then glances at my stack of books. "I'll, uh, get you some boxes." With that he's gone, and I glance back down at the cover of my now-closed yearbook as I bury my hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt. For perhaps the first time in six years, I'm actually grateful for the awful twist of fate that forced me to move back to my too-small hometown and to take a job I never imagined myself actually wanting. I hear Charlie lumbering back up the stairs, and I smile to myself. Maybe my love life isn't the only do-over I'm getting.

* * *

By the time I'm back at my house and showered and blow-dried, I'm standing in front of my closet debating the merits of my meager wardrobe when I hear a knock on the door. Glancing at the clock on my nightstand, I curse; being late is a pet peeve of mine, and playing the make-the-guy-wait pre-date game is something I hate even more. I throw on my fleece bathrobe – quite possibly the least sexy thing I own – and nearly trip down the stairs to crack the door.

"Hi," I say to Edward, who, of course, looks perfect in jeans and a sky blue dress shirt. "I'm really sorry, I got held up at Charlie's. Just give me five minutes, okay?" He nods, and I frown. "Do you, uh, want to wait inside?"

As if he can sense my unease, he shakes his head. "It's actually really nice out. I'll just sit on your porch, if that's okay?"

"Perfect," I say, relieved that he's not getting the full effect of Bathrobe Bella. "Seriously, five minutes."

He grins. "Take your time."

Hell-bent on keeping my word, I dash back upstairs and scramble into jeans and a black sweater. A quick swipe of lip gloss and a hasty mascara application and I'm back on the porch with thirty seconds to spare. "Okay."

As he rises, he reaches into his back pocket and holds something out to me. When I take it, I laugh: a bookmark with a line of sunflowers down the front of it. "You should know that you're sort of sweeping me off my feet here," I tell him, sliding the bookmark into my purse.

"Excellent," he says and makes a sweeping gesture toward his car. "After you."

During the drive to the restaurant, I can't deny that my words, while teasing, were true: Edward Cullen is undoubtedly steamrolling me. I watch him as he drives, one hand on the wheel and the other draped casually against the sill of his door window, and the sinking sun that slides in through that window sets his auburn hair aflame. His sunglasses, despite hiding his bright eyes from view, only add to the sexiness, and it's hard to believe that he's as beautiful from the side as he is head-on. The sudden urge to take his picture hits me, and I dig through my purse to retrieve my phone before realizing that in my haste not to keep him waiting, I've left it behind. I sigh in disappointment, but it's short-lived when he glances over and offers me a smile backlit by golden sunlight.

Despite his tendency to flush and my propensity to put my foot in my mouth, dinner is easy, and fun, and romantic, and by the time we're back on my front porch, I don't want the night to end.

"Do you, um, want to come in? I can make coffee." At his look, clarification falls from my lips in a tumble of words. "Actual coffee. Not, like, coffee-as-a-euphemism-for-sex-coffee," I blurt and immediately wince. _Subtle, Bella._

"Coffee sounds perfect," he says, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, then smirks. "As a euphemism or otherwise."

I turn and open my front door, and when he steps in behind me and I spin to close it, I note the expression of surprise on his face. "What?" I ask, shrugging out of my jacket and stepping out of my shoes.

"You leave your door unlocked?"

I chuckle. "You're in the country now, city boy. Everyone leaves his door unlocked. My dad's a cop and even _he_ doesn't lock his doors unless he's going to be gone overnight." He's frowning as he gazes warily at my now-closed door and toes off his sneakers. "Oh," I say, gesturing at his feet. "You don't have to take your shoes off. I just did because mine aren't the most comfortable ones ever. But you don't have to."

"I don't mind," he says simply, standing in my little house in his socked feet and looking like he belongs there. I nod and lead the way to the kitchen. He settles at the tiny two-top breakfast table and arches a brow in the direction of the spray of wildflowers sitting in a vase in the center of it. "I thought you killed flowers."

"I do," I reply on a laugh. "Those things are goners." I pick up the small carousel that holds my collection of single-serve coffee cups. "Welcome to Café Bella. Would you like decaf, dark roast, regular, hot chocolate, English Breakfast tea, or hazelnut?"

"Wow," he says, squinting at the display. "I'll go with dark roast."

"You got it." I turn and switch on the coffee machine and glance over my shoulder to see him studying the corkboard over my table, to which I have tacked an assortment of photos: Charlie and Billy out on the lake; Jess, Angela, and me in Las Vegas; Jasper, Angela, and Jess at last year's homecoming float parade.

"Your friends seem really cool," he says as he studies the photos, and I hit brew before turning to face him.

"They are." I chew my lip for a beat before adding, "They're sort of your friends now, too."

He glances at me before returning his focus to the corkboard. "That'd be nice," he says absently before lifting a finger to point to my "Vegetarian: Native American word for 'Lousy Hunter'" sticker. "This is a good one."

I laugh. "Yeah, I went on a no-meat kick for about half an hour last year. Jacob Black gave me that for Christmas."

Edward nods and gifts me with a small smile. "I'm still getting used to how interconnected small-town living can be," he admits as I hand him his now-full mug. "I forget about all of the…links." He purses his lips briefly. "I, uh, was trying to give dating advice to Ben Cheney the first week of the season, and I suggested he go out with someone nice, like Tori Keller."

"She's his cousin!" I exclaim as I start my own cup brewing, and Edward chuckles as he nods and lifts his mug to his lips.

"I know that _now_," he agrees, blowing on his steaming coffee. "Last time I ever even remotely try to play matchmaker in Forks."

"Yeah, I'd stay away from that trap. It can turn into The Six Degrees of Inbreeding, if you're not careful."

"No kidding."

"Good thing you're from out of town," I add. "No gray area."

"Good thing," he echoes as my coffee machine spits and hums to signal it's finished.

"Living room?" I ask, and he nods as he picks up his mug and follows me. I opt for the soft light of the small lamp on the end table over the harsh overhead fixture, and we settle into my sofa, which it's worth noting is considerably more comfortable than Edward's office couch.

"Listen, I have a confession to make," I say, cradling my mug in my hands and watching unashamedly as he licks coffee from his lips.

"Okay."

"I was, uh, thinking not-so-nice things about your ex before you told me about her…past."

His lips purse slightly and he nods. "Yeah, well, I guess that's understandable. It was…an unusual situation."

"I think it's really kind, how sensitive you were to her needs. I don't think there are many twenty-year-olds who would be that considerate."

A slight frown, as if he's considering this, then he shrugs. "Honestly, I guess when you care about someone, it's just what you do. And it probably helped that I had nothing to compare it to, so I was content enough to go at the pace she wanted."

I nod, turning this over in my mind. "Well, anyway, I think it's your turn."

"My turn?"

"To set the pace. I'm going to follow your lead."

His throat bobs as he swallows, and even in the soft yellow glow of the lamp on the end table, I can see the pink on the apples of his cheeks. "Okay," he says softly, his eyes dropping from my eyes to my mouth, and it's absurd how physically affected I can feel when he hasn't even touched me.

"Okay," I echo, and he watches my mouth form the word before he leans forward and places his coffee mug on my coffee table atop the coaster bearing a Mark Twain quote.

"Well, in that case." He slides over slightly so that his left side is pressed to my right, and his hand rises to cup my jaw. "I wouldn't mind revisiting first base."

"Anytime," I say, and his hand leaves my face to liberate my full mug from my hand; he places it beside his own, obscuring Emily Dickinson's words this time, before returning his palm to my cheek. He offers me a small smile as he leans in, and when his mouth is on mine, he kisses me soft and slow, lips tugging gently at mine as I feel his warm breath against them. I open my mouth, and after a few shared breaths, his tongue slips against mine; he tastes like coffee and faint traces of the tiramisu we shared after dinner.

We make out in my living room for what could be hours, kisses growing increasingly heated, until I feel his teeth close gently around my lower lip and I groan. Just as he had in the back of his SUV, he grips my hip and tugs gently. Following his direction, I slide down until I'm reclined on the couch, Edward half-hovering over me and half to the side of me, his back flush against the back of the sofa. He continues to kiss me before relinquishing my mouth to move to my cheek, my jaw, the hollow beneath my ear. His lips move down the tendon that runs down the side of my neck, and I can feel soft kisses and gentle suction that makes the rest of my body burn.

"God, Edward," I breathe, and as I shift my hips, I can feel him hard against my thigh. He grunts into my neck and angles his hips away from me.

"Sorry," he mumbles into my skin.

"Don't be," I say, lifting my thigh to press it against him again, and his grunt becomes a groan. He bucks against me ever so slightly, and I smile at the ceiling as his lips continue to tease the skin of my neck. I wrap my arms around his neck as he finds my mouth again, and I'm so focused on the steady slide of his tongue against mine that I don't register his hands at the hem of my shirt until I feel his cool fingertips sliding up the skin of my stomach. My flesh pebbles and my nipples harden in anticipation of his touch, and I sigh into his mouth as his palms slide up and down my ribcage, taunting me as the fly of his jeans presses against my hip bone again.

Then he shifts, and he's in the cradle of my thighs, his hips flush against my own, his denim-covered erection pressing perfectly against my own denim-clad core. He stills momentarily, his satisfying weight bearing me down into the couch cushions, before his tongue swipes along my lower lip and he pulls my lip gently between his teeth at the same moment he pushes his hips into mine. I gasp into his mouth, and he thrusts again, rubbing deliciously right where I'm aching for him.

I want to reach down between us and feel him – feel _him_ – but I don't want to do anything to stop the maddeningly slow roll of his arousal against mine. I meet his hips with my own, and he groans into my mouth, and the sound combined with the swipe of his thumb over my nipple and the press of his hips is nearly enough to undo me.

"Bells?" I don't even have time to register the nickname or the voice before the living room is suddenly awash in bright overhead light.

"Dad?" I say breathlessly, and as if he's been on the receiving end of my dad's stun gun, Edward catapults himself off me and to the opposite end of the sofa, where he runs his hands through his disheveled hair and leans forward to prop his elbows on his knees, ostensibly to hide the tent in his Levi's. I lurch upward, running my hands through my own hair and straightening my sweater. My dad's eyes bounce from me to Edward and back, his mouth twitching slightly.

"Sorry," he says finally, holding up my cell phone. "I found this in your old room and tried to call your landline but you didn't answer, so I figured you were out. I was just gonna leave it on your counter." He glances at Edward again. "Coach."

"Chief Swan," he returns. "Please, call me Edward." Still, he doesn't rise from the couch, and when Charlie's mouth twitches again, I think one or both of us might combust on my sofa.

"All right," Charlie says, and I can see amusement in the eyes I inherited. I glance at Edward; needless to say, his face is aflame. "Well, I'll, uh, leave you two to it." He smirks knowingly at me, and if I'm enjoying recreating my teenage years, it's clear in this moment that Charlie's reveling in the opportunity to bust me for shit I never had the inclination to actually do as a teenager. "Edward, why don't you come on over for dinner with Bella tomorrow? Seems like maybe we should get to know each other a little better." He doesn't wait for Edward's response as he steps back out my front door. "Night, kids," he tosses over his shoulder just before the door clicks shut.

I face Edward, who looks exactly like a kid who just got busted dry-humping his girlfriend by said girlfriend's parents, and I grimace. "Okay, maybe it's time I think about locking my front door."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Coming up (ha) in Chapter 9:_

"**The imagination…" I lick my lips. "But more often than not, it pales in comparison to the real thing."**


	9. Chapter 9

**The Practicum **

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"The imagination…" I lick my lips. "But more often than not, it pales in comparison to the real thing."

**Acknowledgement:** So much thanks to HollettLA, who reads these silly little stories even though she has a super-busy real life, and who validates my existence by saying things like, "When you make the leap to books with pages…" Thanks, lady. For all of it. xo

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

In the first thirty minutes of dinner at my dad's on Sunday night, it becomes clear that the faint stain on Edward's cheeks is going to be present for the duration; evidently, he's having a hard time forgetting that my former police chief father busted him grinding against me on my sofa a mere twenty-something hours prior.

"Princeton, huh?" my dad asks as he chews.

"Yes, sir."

Charlie nods as if considering this, as if there's anything to be gleaned from the fact that Edward was smart enough to graduate from an Ivy League school and a good enough athlete to warrant a scholarship to play there. "Bella was going to teach college before I went and got myself flattened on the highway."

Edward's quick look at me is affectionate, and he takes a sip of his water. "My father wanted me to be a doctor," he says. "I was going to go pre-med, but fortunately I realized pretty early on that teaching was my passion."

Another nod from my dad, and a beat of silence before he shifts in his chair. "Listen, Edward, you seem like a nice enough guy. And the whole threatening-dad routine isn't really my schtick; after all, you do know I'm adept at handling firearms, correct?"

Edward swallows. "Yes, sir."

"Right. So I don't really feel the need to bluster and pound my chest and threaten your life if you hurt my kid."

"Dad—" I attempt, but Edward cuts me off.

"Understood, sir."

Charlie nods. "I will say this, though." Here, he sets his fork down and rests his hand around the base of his can of beer, though he doesn't lift it to his lips. "Bella's a caretaker. Always has been. Even before she actually had to take care of me, she was taking care of me. Know what I mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. Well, then, I'm sure you can understand that the only thing I really want for her is someone to take care of her for a change."

"Dad," I say again, but they both ignore me and Charlie continues.

"I want her to be happy and safe and all those other things, of course, but I want someone who's going to take care of her." Now, he looks at me. "As much as she'll let you, anyway." His focus returns to Edward. "We clear on that?"

"Sir, I'd love to take care of your daughter. However she'll let me."

Charlie nods, apparently appeased. "Well, all right then." He forks a bite of steak, but before he can lift it to his mouth, his eyes narrow and he lowers the utensil as he considers Edward. "Unless…" He purses his lips. "You're not a Yankees fan, are you?"

Edward makes a face. "No, sir. Chicago Cubs."

Charlie's face relaxes and he nods. "Good man."

* * *

"Well, I think that went well," Edward exhales as he stands by the driver's side door to his SUV.

"It did," I agree, crossing my arms over my chest. Now that the sun's gone, the spring air is cool.

"You sound surprised," he says, cupping my biceps in his palms and rubbing his hands up and down my arms to coax warmth into them.

"I've, uh, never brought a boyfriend home before. I was a little nervous about how that was going to go."

"Really? Never?" I shrug, and he smiles as his hands keep moving. "So…another first."

I laugh as I nod. "Another first."

"Nice." His eyes leave my face to glance at my father's house before returning to me, and one side of his mouth hitches in a half-smile. "I really want to make out with you right now, but I think getting busted by your dad once in a weekend is more than enough for me."

"Agreed," I say, even as my inner hornball is pouting. "Though I don't think a semi-chaste goodnight kiss would be inappropriate."

"Semi-chaste?" he asks, his hands sliding from my biceps to my shoulder blades.

I shrug. "We can improvise." I barely catch a glimpse of his smile before his lips are on mine, soft and gentle. All too soon he pulls back, and his eyes are as soft as his kisses as he gazes down at me. "Good night, Bella."

"Good night," I reply, and he presses his lips to my forehead before he climbs into his truck and drives off.

Monday morning, I step into my classroom to find a caramel-coated apple sitting on my desk. Stepping closer, I see a rectangle of lined yellow paper folded beneath it; when I unfold it, I see Edward's handwriting staring back up at me.

_Apples are classic for teachers, but I know how you feel about health food. Consider this the best of both worlds. –E _

I don't see him at all on Monday, save my frequent glances through my classroom window after school, and when I step into his office on Tuesday for our weekly planning session, he grins up at me before his smile falters slightly. "I'm sort of sad," he says by way of hello, and I frown as I cross his small office.

"Why?"

"This is our last planning period. The last week of Sex Ed."

I chuckle. "You might be the first educator who has ever been sad to reach the end of this part of the curriculum."

He smiles. "I guess I have a newfound fondness for this part of the curriculum now."

"I'm not entirely averse to it either," I admit, and he grins as I settle on the lumpy couch, which I most decidedly will _not_ miss.

"Pregnancy and contraception," Edward says, and I nod.

"Probably the one thing they all think they know and the one thing they really know the least about," I say. "It's amazing how many misconceptions exist and how often they can land girls in trouble. Well, girls _and_ boys." My mind dances to Charlie; I imagine him as a twenty-year-old police cadet, suddenly staring down the barrel of fatherhood. I realize belatedly that I've been silent a beat too long, and at Edward's curious gaze, I shrug. "My mother was practically a teen mom," I admit, looking away and picking at the corner of my planning book. "She met my dad when she was just out of school, and she got pregnant less than a year later. My dad was already at the police academy, so they waited until after I was born to get married." A piece of the plastic cover comes away in my hand. "The marriage didn't even last as long as the pregnancy."

When I peek up at him, Edward looks sad, and I force myself to smile. "I always wondered what would have happened if they hadn't gotten pregnant so soon. Maybe they would have gotten married eventually and been really happy together." A memory of Renee assaults me, her auburn hair blowing in the wind slipping through the open car window, desert sand stretching out behind her like a burnt sienna ocean. "I mean, maybe not. My mom is sort of a restless spirit. But…maybe." Then my mind returns to Charlie, who never dated, never brought a woman home, never did anything besides police work and fatherhood and just…being Charlie.

"Bella." When I pull myself from my reverie to look at Edward's face, his expression is quietly fierce. "Don't ever say that again."

Chastened, I retrace my words, looking for my misstep. "What?"

"Anything about a scenario that would preclude your existence." He reaches out and lays his hand atop mine. "There aren't enough Bella Swans in the world, and I won't listen to you suggest there should be one less." I have no idea what to do with his sudden vehemence, his quiet ferocity, the fire in his eyes. I want to kiss him but I'm hyperaware of his open office door and our roles as teachers, so I merely nod. His fingers tighten around mine for a brief moment before he lets go, but he doesn't lean back or otherwise move away from me. "That said, I think the world could probably do without Mike Newton as a teenage father," he allows, and a gurgle of relieved laughter escapes my throat.

"Oh, can you even imagine?"

Edward mock-shudders, but his eyes are still serious as they consider my face. "I, for one, am endlessly grateful that your parents were apparently not paying enough attention during their Sex Ed lectures," he says softly.

I smile. "Well, clearly, I agree with you."

Seemingly pacified that my momentary wave of melancholy has passed, Edward smiles and leans back in his chair. "Well, we already covered the condom demo." One eyebrow lifts. "So to speak."

"Yeah. I think we just recap and then move on to reiterating other birth control methods before launching into the actual fertilization/conception/gestation cycle."

"Sounds good." His long fingers flip the pages of the teacher's text. "So you never lived with your mom?"

Surprised, I shake my head. "Summers," I say. "We'd go on road trips and stuff. But she moved a lot, so it made sense for me to stay with my dad. He was more…stable." I feel a flash of guilt for implying that my mother is somehow not stable, but I don't contradict the unspoken inference.

"So who did you talk to about…" He waves a hand at the open book. "This stuff?"

"Coach Clapp," I say simply, and I can't even keep a straight face when his wide eyes land on my face. At my giggle, his eyes narrow.

"Granted, I never met the man, but from what I understand, he wouldn't have been the average teenage girl's first choice."

I shake my head. "That's an understatement." I nod toward the book. "I read that." I rack my brain for other memories of birds and bees discussions from my formative years, only to realize that there are none to be found. "I guess that was it. The Washington State health curriculum was it for me."

"Jesus," Edward breathes, more to himself than to me. "No pressure there."

"Well, that was before everyone had the Internet," I say. "I doubt we're disclosing as much new information as we would have been a decade ago."

He looks relieved. "Excellent point." A smirk. "Thank God for Google."

I laugh. "And Nerve." Off his frown, I feel my eyebrows lift. "Don't tell me you don't know Nerve."

"I don't," he admits.

"Oh, Edward." I shake my head in mock disappointment. "I would put good money on the fact that Nerve is an oft-visited website these days on the computers at that boarding school you went to."

"I suspect much has changed about the boarding school I went to in the age of the Internet," he allows.

"Fewer nudie magazines tucked away beneath the mattresses?" I tease, and as if he's remembering, his cheeks go pink.

"Probably," he allows with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "Though I suspect there will always be a market for those."

I can't resist the bait. "Bought any new ones recently?" The pink is a shade darker, and I tamp down on the gleeful smile that wants to break free. "Reeeeeeeally."

He shakes his head. "I haven't," he contends, but the flush doesn't fade. "I honestly haven't looked at one of those in a while."

"Oh." Now I'm confused at his blush, and as if he can feel my frowning consideration of him, he peeks up at me, the fringe of his lashes obscuring his eyes slightly.

"Imagination is a powerful thing," is all he says before his eyes dart away again, and it takes me a beat to clue in to his insinuation. The sudden realization of what he's implying hits me with the subtlety of a dodge ball to the face.

"Oh!" I say before I can stop myself, and he scratches the back of his neck. He looks nearly as awkward as I've ever seen him, his knee bouncing and his face afire as his eyes dart around his tiny office. "Oh," I say again.

"Sorry," he says, still not looking at me, and I reach out to still his jumping knee with my hand.

"Don't be," I tell him. "You're right." Confused eyes meet mine and I offer him a conspiratorial half-smile. "The imagination…" I lick my lips. "But more often than not, it pales in comparison to the real thing."

I just adore what a little provocation does to this man's eyes.

* * *

On the way home from Port Angeles on Wednesday night, Angela turns the radio off and glances over at me before refocusing on the road. "Okay. So while I have you here without Jess and Jasper." I know where this is going, but because I get a kick out of Angela's need to at least give the appearance of propriety, I merely turn to face her in silent expectation. As well as I know her she knows me, so she rolls her eyes. "How's it going with Edward?"

The smile on my face is involuntary, and she matches it. "It's going well," I say, toying absently with the cardboard collar around my cup. "Really well," I add, and she grins at the highway.

"He seems very sweet."

"He is." I want to tell her about second base and ex-girlfriends and diner breakfasts, but I don't know where to start, and there's something about the honesty and simplicity of dating Edward that I don't want to compromise by analyzing it with someone else, even if that someone else is as easygoing as Angela.

"I'm glad." Her complete refusal to push for details, however, makes me want to tell her. "I meant it when I said we were taking it slow," I say haltingly, and she nods at the windshield.

"That's good," she says. "Getting to know each other."

"Yeah."

"So…what are you getting to know?"

"That he's a really good kisser," I say with the barely-disguised glee of a fifteen-year-old, and my friend's smile widens.

"Excellent."

"You said it."

Content to leave it at that, Angela nods as she changes lanes. "Well, I'm really happy for you, Bella. He seems like a great guy."

"He is," I agree, and conversation turns to _His Girl Friday._

Hours later, just as I bury myself beneath the patchwork quilt on my bed and crack a dog-eared paperback, I hear the buzz of my vibrating phone from my nightstand. Retrieving it, I see a text from Edward.

_Are you awake?_

I smile. _Yes. Reading._

The phone rings a beat later, and when I answer, he asks, "Anything good?"

"Langston Hughes."

"For class or for fun?"

"For fun," I admit. "Book nerd, remember?"

"_Let the rain kiss you, Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops, Let the rain sing you a lullaby,"_ he recites, and my book falls closed as my mouth falls open. There is no way my inner voice will do any of the poems justice after hearing one of my favorites murmured in dulcet tones through the phone while I'm buried beneath bed sheets.

"Okay, that's not fair."

His low chuckle rumbles through the phone. "What's not?"

"I feel like I should be able to spout back some sports stats or something that will blow your little jock mind, but I'm not that kind of girl."

"Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I did a paper on Hughes for a class in college," he admits. "Luck of the draw: if you'd been reading any other poet, I'd likely have been shit out of luck. With the obvious exception of Shel Silverstein."

"See, you evidently think that makes you less attractive to me when, in reality, it has the completely opposite effect."

"Terrific." He pauses, and I prop my pillows a little higher. "Are you in bed?" he asks, and his voice is at once softer and rougher.

"Yeah," I say, and I think I hear him swallow.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you so late." My mind flashes to our first phone conversation.

"I'm glad you did."

"I was going to drag you out, but not if you're already in bed."

"Drag me out where?" I ask. There are many things Forks lacks, and a nightlife not involving margaritas is one of them.

"Tonight's the Lyrids."

"The what?"

"The Lyrids," he repeats. "Meteor shower."

"Oh." I pause. "I've never seen a meteor shower."

"Never?"

"No." He hums, but timid Edward is apparently in the building, and I can almost hear his reticence to ask me out when he knows I'm already in bed. "I'd love to," I say to his unspoken question, and I hear him exhale.

"Really?"

I laugh. "Really." I want to see him almost as much as I want to study cosmic debris, though I opt to keep this admission to myself.

"I can be at your house in about ten minutes," he says, and I'm already kicking off the covers.

"Okay."

"Bundle up," he says before hanging up. "It's kind of cold tonight."

I kick off my flannel pajama pants and pull on jeans but opt to leave on my long-sleeved thermal shirt, adding my Forks Police Department hoodie and pulling on a wool hat before heading downstairs. When headlight beams illuminate my kitchen eight minutes later, I pull open the door and grab the now-full thermos from my countertop. Descending my porch stairs, I look up to see Edward standing beside the open passenger door.

"Hey," he says softly, and I smile up at him.

"Hey," I return, holding up my trusty thermos. "I hope you like hot chocolate."

"Love it," he replies, hands in his pockets. "I hope this is okay."

"This is perfect," I say, climbing into the passenger seat. He hesitates momentarily before leaning into the car and placing a chaste kiss to my lips before retreating and slamming the door gently. Rounding the car and slipping into the driver's seat, he gives me a sideways glance; even in the dim glow of the overhead dome light, I can see the familiar flush.

"That okay?"

I smile as I rest my palm over his hand on the gearshift between us. "So much more than okay."

He grins. "Okay." I feel his hand tense beneath mine as he shifts the car into gear, but when we don't pull away from the curb I glance at his profile to find him frowning. "I'm, uh…actually not sure where to go. We need somewhere with very little light noise." Oddly enough, for a town with fewer than 1,000 people, there are a surprising number of amber-glowing streetlights dotting the winding roads around town, and where the lines of lights break, the canopy of trees is heavy and less than ideal for stargazing. Most open spaces – with the exception of the Forks High School soccer field – are parking lots cast in the same yellow sodium glow. And there's no way I'm making out with the soccer coach in the middle of the field, after hours or not. The last thing I need is for one of my dad's former deputies to bust me with Edward's hand up my shirt.

"Have you been to La Push Beach?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "It's a bit of a drive, but it's probably ideal for something like this."

Edward nods. "Beach it is." He pulls away from the curb as I fasten my seatbelt, and as he drives, I watch his face glow and dim as we pass under the streetlights. When we pull into the deserted parking lot overlooking La Push Beach a short time later, Edward parks in a space overlooking the inky black ocean. His headlights shine out into the empty darkness with nothing to illuminate, simply fading into the void of dark night as the engine idles. "This okay?"

"Perfect," I reply. He cuts the engine and we both climb out of the car; Edward goes to the tailgate and retrieves an armful of blankets, bundling them and tucking them under one arm and reaching for my hand with the other. The air is nowhere near as cold as winter, but the wind kicking up off the water is chilly enough that I'm glad he told me to dress warmly. The heat of his palm warms my left hand as the thermos of cocoa warms my right, and the way he keeps glancing over at me as we navigate uneven ground warms me from the inside. We clamber down the slope to where the earth meets the gravelly sand and draw to a halt as he peers at me through the darkness.

"How about here?"

"Perfect," I say again, and he spreads the camping blanket out at the foot of the small hill and drops the smaller quilt in a heap on top of it before kicking off his sneakers and stepping onto the blanket in his socks. I follow his lead and sit cross-legged on the makeshift palette, standing the thermos at the edge of the blanket. The gradual incline makes it tip, and I prop my discarded shoes against it to keep it upright. Glancing upward, I note that this was actually a good suggestion: the stars twinkle down at me, the moon bright white against the black velvet sky.

"The peak activity is supposed to be between midnight and one thirty," he says as he lowers himself beside me, reclining to follow my gaze up to the night sky.

"What time is it?" I ask, and he glances at his watch.

"Eleven forty-five." He returns his eyes to the heavens. "But we'll probably see a few before it really gets going."

"I hope those clouds don't obscure it," I say, pointing to where silhouettes outlined in silver loom in the distance. I don't know enough about weather patterns to know which direction they're likely floating. We watch the sky in silence for a few minutes, my eyes scanning the firmament for movement, for streaking brilliance. "Why do people wish on shooting stars?" I wonder idly, still scanning the darkness.

"Because they're rare?" Edward guesses. "People wish on all sorts of rare things."

I pull my eyes from the sky to peek at his profile. "Hmm."

"Know what's funny, though?"

"What?" I ask, returning my focus to star-hunting.

"The fact that we call them 'shooting' stars."

I frown into the darkness. "Why is that funny?"

"Because they're not shooting, they're falling. Shooting stars are actually falling into the Earth's atmosphere, and they become visible when they burn up. So we're actually making a wish on something that's being incinerated."

"That's…kind of sad," I say, feeling silly for being melancholy about the deterioration of a chunk of space debris.

"Beautiful, though," he murmurs. "That people give those doomed dust particles such significance. Placing their dreams onto something destined to burn up in the heavens."

"Sort of like Santa."

"What?"

"Like how little kids send letters up the chimney," I explain, not sure if I'm making sense or not but feeling somehow safe in the darkness. "All of their little-kid wishes getting sent up on a plume of smoke."

"Yeah," he says softly, his hand finding mine on the blanket between us, his fingers linking with mine. Then, after a beat, "If you could pick something to wish on, what would it be?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, if you had to give something wish-granting power, what would it be?"

I love this question. "Hmmmmm," I hem as I think and gaze at the sky. Perhaps it's a side effect of where we are, but my mind floats to my childhood, and running around the craggy shoreline with Rachel Black while our dads sat on the sand with a cooler between them, watching us with one eye while they talked baseball and fly fishing. "Whole seashells." I turn my face to find Edward gazing at me intently. "You don't usually find a whole shell; there's usually at least a piece of it missing. Finding a whole seashell always sort of felt like a jackpot when I was a kid."

"That's a good one," he agrees.

"What about you?"

"You know how, when there's heavy cloud cover, rays of sunlight break through and you can see them like a spotlight beam?"

"Yeah."

"I always thought that was deserving of a wish."

"I like that," I say softly.

"I like you," he murmurs in response, squeezing my fingers gently, his eyes shining in the darkness.

"I like you, too," I whisper, and when I see him lick his lips I forget all about the cool spring breeze as heat, instant and buzzing, surges through me. He rolls to his side and I mirror him so that we're facing each other on the blanket, parentheses closed around what's between us. The hand not holding mine curls around my hip, and I inch closer to him.

His lips purse, and his fingers tighten faintly against my hipbone as he scoots toward me. "Hi," he murmurs with his smiling mouth.

"Hi," I reply in a whisper, my mouth curving upward to mirror his.

"Know what else would be good for a wish?"

"What?"

"First kisses."

I smile. "True. But after the first time I kissed you, all I would have wished for was a second."

His smile vanishes, replaced by intensity as his eyes drop to my mouth. "Yeah," he agrees. "And a third."

"I'd wish to lose count," I breathe.

"I can help you with that," he says, voice rough.

"Please do."

His lips are warm, and he tastes like sugary gum as his mouth moves gently over mine. I shiver against him, and he mistakes it for a chill as he pulls back, a slight frown warring with the arousal in his eyes. "Are you cold?"

"No," I say, even as he drags the quilt up and over us.

"Do you want to leave?"

"Hell no."

A smirk, and he's kissing me again, the thick blanket over us making a cocoon around us that heats in degrees as our kisses grow more fervent. His teeth nip at my lower lip and I gasp into his mouth as his mouth makes a mess of me. I can feel the hand that was on my hip sliding up and down my side, grazing the side of my breast with each pass, and I whimper as my desperation for his touch mounts with every kiss.

He tears his mouth from mine, pressing open-mouthed kisses up the side of my neck. "I swear I didn't bring you here for this," he mumbles into my skin, and I tilt my head to give him better access.

"I wouldn't care if you did," I say, winding my hand into his hair and pulling the short strands gently, tearing a low rumble from his throat. His mouth is back on mine and finally his hand slides in, cupping my breast through the bulky cotton layers of my clothing. Almost immediately it leaves and slides up beneath them, his cool fingertips slipping beneath my thermal to pluck at my pebbled nipple as I gasp into his mouth. I trail my hand down from the back of his head to his hip, pulling his body flush with mine and moaning softly when I feel his groin come into contact with mine.

We pick up where we left off on my couch, Edward hitching his hips against mine and gently caressing my breasts beneath the cotton of my shirt. All too soon his hand leaves me, but almost instantly I feel it at the waistband of my jeans. True to form, he hesitates, and I hitch my hips against his in encouragement, delighting in the almost pained gasp that falls from his lips. His fingers find the button of my jeans and slip it free; suddenly I realize that in my haste to get dressed, I neglected to trade out my purple cotton briefs for sexier underwear. Edward, for his part, doesn't seem put off in the slightest by my decidedly utilitarian undergarments as his long fingers drag the zipper of my fly down. The pads of his index and middle fingers press against damp cotton, and my back arches as our mouths part. "Is this okay?" he breathes into the tender skin of my neck, and I open my eyes. I find his cheeks with my hands and force his gaze to mine.

"Hey," I pant, and he waits patiently, eyes sparkling and lips kiss-swollen. "Everything's okay. If something's not, I'll tell you, but you don't have to ask. Okay?"

His shoulders relax as if I've just freed him, and he nods. "Okay."

Those fingers trace up the front of my briefs and still momentarily at the elastic, his warm palm pressed flush to the skin beneath my belly button, an unspoken pause to give me the chance to decline. I don't, and the tips of his fingers slip beneath the elastic and farther down until they come to rest on wet flesh, slipping against where I'm aching for him. He gazes intently at my face, and the question that doesn't pass his lips is in his eyes. I tilt my hips in encouragement and reach out to curl my hand around his neck, pulling his head back down to me.

"Tell me how you like it," he breathes against my hair, and his words ignite me further.

"Slow," I gasp. "Gentle." His touch is a ghost against my skin, feather-light but just strong enough to tease.

"Good?" he asks, flicking my earlobe with his tongue, and I pant out a yes as I reach unseeingly for his jeans. When his own pants are in a similar state to my own, I can feel his erection through cotton and I pull back from his kiss to glance down between us. In the dark cocoon of blankets, I can just make out the tent he's created of his green and blue plaid boxers, and I run my palm over the cotton-covered length of him. His fingers still against me as he groans, and I do it again once, twice more before sliding my hand up and into the waistband and back down to meet his bare length. "Oh," he whimpers and bucks against me once before he resumes the gentle passes of his fingertips.

I stroke him slowly before pulling the tender skin of his throat gently between my teeth. "Show me how _you_ like it," I breathe, and his hand instantly leaves me to slide into his boxers and wrap around my own, and around him. I feel my own wetness on his fingers, and that little intimacy makes my heart trip in my chest. He guides my movements, slow and gentle with a slight twist for a few passes until I have it, then returns his fingers to me.

We work each other, kissing and moaning, the wet sounds of kisses and heated flesh uncharacteristically loud in the quiet darkness against the backdrop of the ocean, and when he pulls away again, I gaze up into his bright eyes in question until I feel his fingertips slide down, leaving the small nub of flesh and settling against my opening. His pause, my unspoken permission, and suddenly his fingers are sliding into me. Slowly, slowly, and I slow the pace of my hand to match his.

"Oh," I gasp, his fingers probing as his palm settles against my wet skin.

"How…" He trails off, still pushing his fingers slowly in and out, and I lift my hips into his hand.

"Just like that," I encourage him, and his mouth covers mine again, his tongue sliding against mine in time with the advance and retreat of his fingers. I spread my legs more, giving him access, the fact that we're in public and the hardly clandestine spot we've chosen combining to make me feel wanton and carefree.

"More," I beg, and I don't know what more, exactly, I want, but Edward takes it to mean more of everything: he adds another finger, increases the pace, increases the pressure of his palm against my clit, and almost immediately, I can feel my peak fast approaching. "Edward," I gasp, my hips bucking up to meet his hand, and he pulls back to watch my face as I splinter beneath him, my eyes squeezing shut, my mouth falling open in a silent scream. I shudder and clench and shatter, my body rippling around the fingers still buried deep inside me, against the palm cupping the most intimate part of me in an almost possessive hold. He remains still as I gasp and slowly come back to myself, realizing that in my own orgasm I'd stopped moving my hand; he bucks against me, thrusting into my tightened grip, and I relax my fingers slightly as I resume stroking him.

"Bella," he pants, his hips rising and falling in time with my touch. "Bella, I'm going to…" He trails off, the implication enough, and I don't know whether he wants me to stop or not so I keep touching him, a quicker rhythm with the twist he showed me, and then he's tensing and shuddering and spurting, his release warm and wet against my wrist and my palm, a rough cry falling from his lips as he comes. "Oh," he groans as he quakes, the tail end of his orgasm leaving him boneless as he collapses against the blanket, trembling and gasping. "Bella," he murmurs again, and his feverish kisses are now languid and loose-lipped, his tongue flicking against my own rubbery lips, his warm breaths puffing into my mouth as we both come back to ourselves. My hand is still in his boxers and his is still in my underwear; I relocate my palm to his hip and he does the same, and we stay wrapped around each other beneath the thick quilt as our breathing slows. My heart thuds heavily in my chest. "We, uh," he says when he catches his breath, and follows it with a short chuckle. "We…made a mess."

"Yeah," I agree with a small giggle, feeling the truth of his words in the damp cotton between my legs. Well worth it. I feel slightly sorry about the certainly more uncomfortable situation he's got going on.

I glance upward, but the sky has clouded over, and there is only the odd star visible through the clouds, the outlines of which glow silver in the moonlight. "Oh, no," I say softly, and Edward rears back as if I've shoved him away.

"What?" he asks, concern thick in his voice, and I feel immediately guilty.

"No, no." I nod toward the sky, where silver-silhouetted clouds obscure the stars. He follows my gaze, but relief is evident on his face as he shrugs. "I'm sorry we didn't see any stars," I say, pressing a soft kiss to the point of his chin.

"Speak for yourself," he murmurs, catching my lips with his.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks, as always, for reading. Chapter 10 preview:_

**"I'm going to do that thing you've never done, and God knows you've waited long enough for it."**


	10. Chapter 10

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"I'm going to do that thing you've never done, and God knows you've waited long enough for it."

**Acknowledgement: **

There once was a girl from Nantucket.

Then there was HollettLA, who proofread porn for comma placement.

The end.

(Thanks, lady. xo)

_**A/N: This chapter got a little lengthy. I debated splitting it until I realized that the teaser I provided last time – and all the "fun" stuff – would get bumped to Chapter 11, and I worried people would throw rotting cyber-produce at me. So I opted to leave it as is, which means you get a longer chapter. (And yes, I know, they say size doesn't matter. They lie.)**_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

I'm in full agreement with Edward when I step over the threshold to his classroom on Thursday morning: for the first time, I do believe I'll be sorry to see this part of the curriculum come to an end. When he spies me in the doorway, he grins, even as blood flushes his face. "Good morning."

"Good morning." I feel the underlying thrill of seeing in the daylight the man I saw in the throes of passion mere hours earlier, and I can only imagine that my coloring is a pretty close approximation of his.

"Sleep well?" His voice is equal parts taunting and earnest, and I quirk an eyebrow at him, which he answers with a deepening flush.

"Very well. You?"

"Very well," he mimics, and I set my book on the corner of the desk.

"Must have been all that fresh air," I tease, and despite his slight discomfort, his eyes darken.

"Must have been." He licks his lips as he pins me with his gaze, and I shift my feet on the linoleum.

"Dirty pool," I mutter, my words cut off by the trickling arrival of our students through the classroom door.

"Very dirty," he agrees almost inaudibly, gazing at me intently, and I'm not sure if his words are intentionally suggestive or if my mind is just too firmly entrenched in the gutter not to hear the innuendo. Then he swallows, and I know my brain isn't the only pervy one in the room. As the kids file in and find their seats, Edward heads to the back of the room and drags the TV/VCR combo back up to the front of the class, plugging in the power cord and fiddling with the machine as the screen buzzes to life and glows blue. I don't realize I'm ogling his half-bent body – clad in the black slacks and green shirt today – from behind until I snap back to myself and glance around, seeing that Rosalie is watching me with a small half-smile on her lips. I look away and continue my scan of the room before looking down at the book in my lap. Edward evidently gets the video set up without my help this time, and as the bell rings, asks Ben Cheney to kill the lights.

"All right everyone, conception and pregnancy today. This video's going to take up most of the period, and provided you guys pay attention and keep quiet, I won't assign homework tonight. Deal?" The class rumbles its approval and he nods, hitting "play" and winding his way back around the teacher's desk. He sinks into the chair beside me as a voice booms in the darkened classroom.

"_Life's greatest miracle,"_ says the narrator, who sounds like was he was trying to channel Anthony Hopkins and unwittingly brought forth Hannibal Lecter instead. As Edward settles in the chair next to me, the thought passes through my mind that my life's greatest miracle will be if I can make it through the next forty-five minutes without remembering the way his fingers felt on my body, in my body, what he looked like when he came apart beneath my touch, what it felt like to have him warm and shuddering in my arms. As the narrator revisits the actual baby-making part of the program prior to delving into the biology behind fertilization and conception, I notice that Edward fidgets at the word "erection." He fidgets again at the word "penetration." And again at the word "ejaculation."

I peek over at him and two spots of color sit high on his cheeks; his fingers are absently spinning a pen, and I swallow as my mind once again flashes to the feel of what those digits can do. I slide my small notepad out from the pocket inside my plan book and scribble on it quickly before passing it to him, using the large desk as a screen from sharp teenage eyes.

_You're awfully fidgety._

He bites his lip but doesn't look at me, putting the pen to its intended use. When he hands my note back to me, he has written, _You're awfully distracting. And sexy._

I blush, putting pen to paper again and sliding it back. _Your fingers are distracting me._

He reads, he smirks, and he resumes twirling his pen. I shift and angle my body ever so slightly toward him, crossing my right leg over my left, knowing that the movement makes my kneecaps just visible beneath the hem of my modest skirt. I see his eyes flick to my legs and back, the muscle at the hinge of his jaw twitching; there's a quiet clatter as his pen slips from his fingers and hits the floor.

"Dirty pool," I hear him mutter as he bends to retrieve it, and I bite back a smile. Two can play at that game.

* * *

Having covered the pill, the patch, the shot, the implant, and the diaphragm, Edward has moved on to withdrawal as a birth control method, and the kids' eyes are steadily glazing over. I'm pretty sure Emmett might be asleep, and Alice is penning a rather detailed sketch of something that, upside down, looks like a moose or a dinosaur in the margin of her handout. Such is Friday in high school.

"And guys, it's worth noting that a woman can also get pregnant if semen is spilled on the outside of the female reproductive organs as well, and that withdrawal does not protect either partner against sexually transmitted infections, okay? So it's really not advisable until you're in a relationship wherein both partners have been tested and confirmed to be free of any infections, and in which a pregnancy would not be a completely unwelcome event." He glances around the room, evidently agreeing with my assessment of the general attention level, and sighs before sliding his eyes to me. "Anything to add, Ms. Swan?"

I shake my head. "No, I think you covered it."

Edward grins as he turns back to the class. "So make sure _you guys_ cover it, okay?"

A few chuckles, and Edward half-turns to slide his ever-present manila folder off the desk. "Okay. Last handout of the unit. I know you guys are just crushed." I watch his dexterous fingers flick at the corners of the worksheets, my traitorous mind once again envisioning them doing something entirely different, and as I shift in my seat, I wonder idly if my own high school teachers were as hypocritical as I am. Or as horny. My mind flashes back to Ms. Crabtree and her tendency to use childish euphemisms for genitalia even in health class. Probably not.

I'm yanked from my silent rumination by the ringing bell, and as the kids stuff their books and binders into backpacks, Edward raises his voice over the buzz of activity. "Have a good weekend, everyone. And make sure you thank Ms. Swan on your way out for helping us with this unit, please. I know she sees enough of you guys as it is." The students do so as they file past, and when the room is nearly empty, Rosalie comes up to stand in front of me.

"Thank you, Ms. Swan," she says softly, her gratitude clearly more explicit than that of her peers. "Really."

I nod and smile. "Rosalie, you can come and talk to me anytime, okay? Health unit or not."

She returns my smile and nods, hugging her notebook to her chest like a shield. "Emmett's been…really sweet. Understanding."

"I'm glad," I tell her. "Just keep being honest with him, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees, her arms tightening around her binder for a beat before she nods again. "Well, thanks." She turns to leave, tossing a "Bye, Mr. Cullen," over her shoulder as she reaches the doorway where Alice is waiting, and the two disappear up the hallway.

"Bye, Rosalie," he says to her retreating back before turning to me, a small smile curling his lips. He reaches out and takes my plan book from my hands, sliding it to the top of his stack of books. "Thank you, Ms. Swan," he says, and I shrug.

"My pleasure." It isn't until the words are out that I realize how true they are – and true in a way that has very little to do with teaching. He trails me out of the room and we navigate the bustling hallway together. "So who is it tonight?" I ask, waving at Angela, who disappears into the art room a few paces ahead of us.

"Taholah," he says. "Will you come?"

"Definitely."

"Cool," he says, drawing to a halt as we reach my classroom door and he hands me my book. "So I'll see you tonight, then."

I nod. "Good luck."

He grins. "Thanks." He considers me for an extra moment before nodding and turning, making his way back down the hallway. I probably watch him go for a beat longer than is strictly appropriate before I turn and step into my classroom, forcibly redirecting my mind to Shakespeare.

* * *

That night the air is noticeably warmer, a sure sign that spring is here with summer hot on its heels, and as I sit in the bleachers chatting with Angela and Jasper, I wave to Charlie, who has just arrived with Billy in tow. They make quite the pair in their almost-matching Seattle Mariners gear – a sweatshirt in Billy's case and a ball cap in Charlie's – and I think briefly about wandering down to make sure he actually ate something more than chips and dip while they were watching the game, but think better of it. He doesn't need me to mother hen him any more than I need a bedroom in his house, but I think leaving those things in the past is going to be an adjustment for both of us.

"Hey, guys," Jess says as she appears at the end of our row, and perhaps for the first time since we began teaching together, she actually looks nervous. Then I notice the tall guy standing behind her. "This is Mark. Mark, this is everyone: Angela, Jasper, and Bella." Mark grins and nods at all of us, and when I meet Jessica's eye, she flushes slightly as she lowers herself to the bleacher row, shrugging off her purse and scooting toward me to make room for Mark on the end. "Later," she murmurs just loudly enough for me to hear, and I lean into her slightly to bump her shoulder with mine. She offers me a small smile and we shift our focus to the field.

As the players warm up, I watch Edward, who wanders around his half of the field, hands in the pockets of his black Adidas pants, his dark gray hooded sweatshirt so oddly endearing for some reason I can't quite put into words. The kids jog, sprint, stretch, play keep-away, do some other drill I don't entirely understand, and finish the warm-up period with shots on goal. When they all jog over to the sideline and line up facing the flag above the scoreboard, the crowd falls silent as the tinny opening refrain of the national anthem emanates from the sound system. Not even halfway through the song, I feel Angela's finger poking me in the small of my back; I turn my head to glance over my shoulder and she tilts her head to the left and raises her eyebrows. When I follow her gesture, I see Edward standing at the end of his line of players, hand over his heart and eyes on me. When I meet his gaze, his face splits into a grin, and I'm powerless not to return it. We smile at each other stupidly for a few more bars before he returns his focus to the flag and I do the same.

The game, as predicted, is a blowout: Forks is up 4-0 in the first ten minutes, and Edward has all of the second-stringers – including kids who generally have no idea what they're doing on the field – in the game by the twelfth minute. The second string is slightly less punishing, but by halftime, the score is 7-0.

"I always feel badly for teams that suck," Jasper says as I pour cocoa into the paper cups I brought with me. Judging from the weather, this is likely the last time we'll need it.

"Me too," Angela says. "Do you think he'll pull back on the reins?"

I shrug as I pour. "I think that's probably what he was going for when he put Danny Jacobs at center forward." Danny, while a sweet kid, is no one's idea of a goal-scoring machine. Or a jock, for that matter.

"True," Angela agrees. I rise and make my way to where Charlie and Billy are standing to offer them some hot chocolate; they accept and I let Charlie tease me not so subtly about my fledgling relationship with Edward before I roll my eyes and peck him on the cheek before returning to my spot in the stands. My friends and I sip our drinks and watch as Edward talks to his horseshoe cluster of players; the opposing coach is standing before his own crew of kids, looking defeated by more than the unfavorable score. He reminds me somewhat of Coach Clapp, though thankfully he doesn't seem to be chewing out his players, which was Clapper's go-to coaching style whenever his teams were losing.

When the referees signal the players back to the field, the Forks boys take the field. As I watch, every single kid goes to a different position than he usually plays, and every single starter is still sitting on the bench. At the starting whistle, the game resumes and we watch in silence for a few minutes before Jasper breathes out a "Damn."

"What?" I ask, watching Danny awkwardly trap a ball and attempt to pass it back to the center midfielder.

"He's playing possession."

"What?"

Jasper shrugs. "Edward probably put restrictions on when they can shoot. Like, they have to pass it ten times first, or everyone on the field has to touch the ball first." I watch the play unfold, and he's right: while the kids are still battling, still playing, there's a lack of urgency to penetrate the offensive third of the field. And, given the general lack of skill of some of our second-stringers, the opposing team is able to mount a few offensive strikes of their own. My eyes shift to Edward, who is still standing near the sideline, coaching. I recall in that moment that whenever Clapp's teams were up by any considerable margin, he would sit himself down at the end of the bench and cross his arms over his chest, as if to say, "Well, this one's over." Edward's acting like his boys are up by one goal instead of seven, and the now-familiar combination of respect and affection bubbles up in my chest. I think I might enjoy the second half even more than I enjoyed the first, given Jasper's insight, and when the final whistle blows it takes all of my self-restraint to wait until the handshakes are over and the boys are cooling down to make my way to Edward's sideline, where he's knotting the drawstring of the ball bag.

"Good game, Coach," I say, and he grins that easy grin as he drops the mesh bag by his feet.

"Thanks." As we stand smiling at each other beneath the brilliant lights of the stadium, it hits me: damp hair, bright eyes, relaxed smile, hoodie – this is what I imagine he looks like on a Sunday morning. He glances past me, at the bleachers full of people, and an unexpected look of resolve crosses his face as he returns his eyes to mine.

"What?" I ask, slightly confused by the sudden disappearance of his post-victory levity, and he shakes his head before stepping closer and winding a hand around my waist. Before I can ask what he's up to, he lowers his head and presses his mouth to mine. It's likely my imagination, but I'd swear that the murmur of the crowd quiets ever so slightly as he kisses me in front of everyone. When he pulls back, his eyes stay trained on my face, and I blink away my surprise as I smile up at him. "Throwing caution to the wind, huh?" I tease, and he shrugs.

"I'd rather not be the subject of speculative gossip," he says lightly, and off my frown, clarifies, "Confirmation has a tendency to take the wind out of the sails of speculation."

"You know, for someone who grew up in a city, you have a surprisingly comprehensive understanding of the way small-town gossip works."

"I'm learning," he grins, placing a quick kiss to my forehead before bending to haul the ball bag over his shoulder. He takes my hand in his free one as we make our way back toward the locker room, and in this moment, with the population of Forks watching my back as I walk away holding Edward's hand, I get a flash of what it must have felt like to be queen bee in high school.

The sensation doesn't ebb as I stand outside the locker room, my back pressed up against the brick façade of the building. The players each bid me goodnight as they exit and pass me by, and finally Edward appears, locking the door behind him and looping one strap of his backpack over his shoulder. He reclaims my hand and we walk across the parking lot to his car. "Let's go get my girl a margarita," he says, tossing his backpack onto the back seat and opening the passenger door for me, and I can't deny the thrill I feel at being referred to as his girl.

* * *

"Spill it," I say when Mark leaves our table to hit the restroom, and Jessica shrugs. "He's still dumb as a rock, and he still has a dick like—uh," she pauses and throws an uncharacteristically self-conscious look in Edward's direction. "Well, anyway," she says. "He's just really _nice_. I mean, I told him I couldn't have dinner with him because I told my mother I'd clean out her rain gutters, and he showed up and did it for me." Jessica's mother has been single since we were kids together, and Jess, as an only child, is frequently called on to help her with things. The odd role reversal of returning to town as adults and feeling emotionally – and otherwise – responsible for our single parents has been a topic over which we have bonded many a time over the years. "And he doesn't know squat about science, but remember that exhibit I wanted to go to in Port Angeles about the Hubble Telescope?" Off our nods, she barrels on. "Well, he offered to go with me. Like, who wants to do that if they don't like science?" She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe I was hasty before. He's just…really nice."

"He seems really nice," Edward says kindly, and Jessica shoots him a grateful smile. She's opening her mouth to say something more when Mark reappears and slides in next to her. Edward and Jasper redirect the conversation to hiking trails in the Pacific Northwest – a topic on which Mark is apparently an enthusiast – and I relax into easy conversation and the feel of Edward's warm palm cupping my kneecap.

By the time we're standing on my porch an hour later and he has me slightly pressed up against my front door, kissing me senseless, he's cupping everything else: my hip, my neck, my cheek, my ribcage. I hook my index fingers into the pockets of his warm-up pants and pull him even tighter against me, swallowing his low grunt as his mouth works over mine, each swipe of his tongue sending heat from my mouth to every other part of me.

"Edward," I gasp as he releases my mouth to drop kisses to my cheekbone, neck, jaw.

"I want to come in, but I really should go home and shower," he murmurs, tilting my head to pull the thin skin of my neck gently between his teeth.

"I want you to come in, and I have a shower," I volley, and he returns his mouth to mine for a few heated kisses before he pulls back, his hand tight on my hip, and peers down at me, his chest rising and falling with his quick breaths. His other hand traces my jawline and his thumb passes over my surely swollen lips.

"Let me buy you dinner again tomorrow night, and I promise to come in afterward."

"You like my coffee, huh?" I hope he realizes I'm going for the euphemism.

"I'm crazy about your coffee." Oh yeah. He gets it.

He covers my mouth with his again, and just as I think maybe he'll come inside after all, he breaks the kiss and presses his lips gently to the tip of my nose.

"See you tomorrow," he says, and I lick my lips as I nod.

"Tomorrow."

When tomorrow comes, I am once again jogging with the early morning sunshine, and when I reach the soccer field, I'm confused to see the boys scrimmaging but no Edward coaching. I glance over my shoulder toward the parking lot, scanning the assortment of student cars before spotting his SUV at the far edge of the blacktop. Turning back to the team, I wonder if he's in the locker room or something until my eyes land on the player who has just cut off a pass and is dribbling the ball up the sideline with considerable speed. "Gotta be a better pass than that, Ben," he taunts as he speed dribbles, and I feel my mouth pop open.

Edward. He goes up against Mike and, admittedly, schools him before picking his head up and firing a cross off to the middle of the field; Tyler Crowley heads it toward the net, and the only thing that stops it from being a goal is a diving save by Jacob. "Nice hands, Jake," Edward calls as he jogs back down the field, and I school my features as I climb onto one of the low bleacher seats. Stretching my legs out onto the row in front of me, I lean forward, feeling the delicious stretch of my hamstrings and calves as I watch Jake punt the ball and a couple of boys jostle each other to win it out of the air.

"Bella?" I turn from my ogling to see Jessica standing by the bleachers. "I thought that was you," she says, glancing toward the field before giving me a knowing look. "Whatcha doin'?" She smirks, and I roll my eyes.

"Just…watching. What are you doing here on a Saturday?"

She holds up her lesson book as she climbs up to the seat beside me. "Left my planning book in my desk." We watch the scrimmage unfold for a few minutes before she shifts on the metal bench. "Thanks for being so cool with Mark last night," she says as she squints at the field. Despite all of her teasing and joking, Jessica is one of the most straightforward people I know.

"Of course," I reply. "He does seem really nice."

She nods, a small smile curling her mouth. "So does Edward."

My eyes find him amid the sea of teenage boys. "He is," I agree.

"You hit that yet?" she asks, smile widening as she reverts back to her more typical fare.

"Subtle, Jess."

"Oh, please," she says, stretching her legs out in front of her in a posture like my own. "You've known me how long? When have I ever done subtle?"

"Excellent point."

"You should also know that deflection rarely works on me."

"We're taking it slow, remember?"

She huffs. "There's slow, and then there's glacial."

"Believe me when I tell you that it's a lot hotter than glacial."

"Excellent," she says, squinting once again at the field. "So what's hot, if you haven't done 'it' yet?" She punctures "it" with air quotes, even though she knows I have limited patience for people who use air quotes.

I scratch my knee. "There are a lot of stops between a first date and…that."

"Ooh. Do tell."

"No," I say flatly, even as I'm tempted. Jess, while a self-confessed hornball, can be surprisingly insightful – and dare I say helpful – when it comes to relationship chats, even if only about fifty percent of her "advice" can ever really be taken seriously. When her expectant silence becomes too great a temptation to deny, I heave a sigh and lower my voice. "We've…done some stuff."

"Which stuff?"

"Like…touching stuff."

She nods. "Nice. Those fingers as magical as they look?" I feel an Edward-esque flush works its way into my cheeks, and she nods again at my unspoken affirmation. "Very nice."

"Indeed."

"That it?"

I shrug. "We're working our way up to the other stuff."

"Well, work away, Swan. As I believe I've mentioned, I'll be anticipating the details."

I chew my lip, and she notices. "What?"

"He's never…" I trail off, uncomfortable with revealing Edward's personal life to someone else, but my truncated confession sends Jessica's mind to the worst place and her eyebrows to her hairline.

"Don't tell me that boy is a virgin because I will straight-up weep."

I shake my head quickly. "He's not. He's definitely not a virgin. But there's…other stuff he hasn't done."

She considers me for a moment before shrugging. "Well, that's not all that weird. I wouldn't have thought you'd be one for the backdoor delivery anyway."

No wonder I'm such a pervert. As they say, _You are who you hang with._ "Not that," I tell her, and she frowns. I'm getting the flip side of what my diner conversation with Edward must have been like for him, and it makes me want to laugh.

Her eyes narrow. "What then?"

"Oral," I essentially whisper, even though the closest people to us are a good fifty yards away.

"What?" She yelps, and I shush her as my eyes find Edward; at her screech, he looked up and is now grinning at me. I return his smile and offer him a small wave before he picks up the game. "What?" she asks again, and I glance over at her warily.

"He was in a long-term relationship and she wasn't…into that."

"Oh, honey," she breathes, her eyes finding Edward as she pats my forearm. "Do it. Do it now, and do it well. You will blow that boy's mind." She grins in unbridled glee at her inadvertent double-entendre. "Among other things."

"It's…been a while since I did that," I admit.

"Like riding a bike," she murmurs.

"Any pointers?"

Jess closes her eyes and tilts her head back toward the sun. "I'm savoring this moment, in which Bella Swan is actually asking me outright for blow job tips."

"Shut up," I say, suddenly tempted to knock her off the bleachers, and she opens her eyes.

"For a boy who's never had it before? I'd say that no matter what happens, if you have his dick in your mouth, it's guaranteed to make his top ten list of favorite days."

"Jess," I groan, my face on fire.

She takes pity on me, watching Edward as he battles with Ben for possession of the ball and cackles with glee when he breaks free with it at his feet. "Eye contact, let him watch, don't neglect the balls, and swallow." She shrugs. "You do all of that, you're golden."

Just the mental image of doing all of those things with Edward is making me wish that it were later in the day, and that my dinner – and, perhaps more importantly, my "coffee" – with him weren't so many hours away.

"Thanks," I say, suddenly sheepish, and she chuckles beside me.

"Oh, no, Bella. Thank _you_." A snort, and she mutters, "That's what _he_ said."

* * *

As anticipated, after a brief hello to sweaty and grass-stained and generally delicious Edward, the rest of the day drags. Eventually, though, we are seated next to each other at a table for ten at Otani, the Japanese hibachi restaurant in Port Angeles. To our left is a young couple with two young kids whose excitement at the pending culinary performance is nearly palpable. To our right is a foursome of twenty-something girls who are evidently celebrating a birthday, and who are sucking down alcoholic drinks that are the color of Crayola crayons and roughly the size of paddling pools. One of them was on fire when it arrived, and I admit to being mildly disappointed that no one's product-heavy hair ignited.

"I thought this would be fun, but I neglected to consider the lack of romance," Edward murmurs in my ear, his palm finding my kneecap, and I scoot slightly closer to him.

"I don't know," I say, glancing at our dinner companions before bumping his shoulder with mine. "I sort of like being on the same side of the table as you."

His smile is instant, and as I return it, I'm abruptly grateful that the detached, reserved, uptight Mr. Cullen I worked with has given way to the easygoing, sweet, lighthearted Edward I'm dating. As we grin stupidly at each other, I notice that beneath the collar of his bright white dress shirt his neck is red despite the fact that, for once, he's not blushing. "Is that from coaching?" I ask, reaching out a single finger to poke gently at the skin. It goes white beneath the pressure of my touch before returning to its sunburned pink.

"Yard work."

"Yard work?" I repeat, and he nods as he lifts a cucumber from his just-arrived appetizer salad with his chopsticks.

"My grass was getting unruly. I was worried if I left it much longer, I might unearth a car or a small horse or something when I finally mowed it." The concept of Edward doing manual labor is an appealing one. As I unwrap my own chopsticks, I try to picture him pushing a lawnmower, muscles flexing, skin glowing with a fine sheen of sweat beneath the spring sunshine, but I realize almost instantly that I can't place the setting. He notices the frown on my face and mirrors it. "What?"

I shake my head, but the discomfiture lingers. "I, uh…just realized I don't even know where you live." His frown gives way to surprise, eyebrows sliding up his forehead before dropping and narrowing again.

"You don't?"

I shake my head. "Is that…" I don't know what word I'm seeking. Weird? Normal? A sign that his place is a dump? A clue that he has a closet-dwelling skeleton that he doesn't want me to know about?

"That's…" He trails off, evidently as baffled as I am. "I didn't realize that."

"I didn't either," I admit. "Not until just now."

"Huh." We stare at each other for a moment before he shakes his head. "Well. That's easily remedied. Coffee at my place tonight instead of yours."

I smirk at him, a ridiculous swell of relief washing over me at his complete lack of hesitation. "Is that euphemistic coffee, or actual coffee?"

I'm learning, slowly but surely, that embarrassment isn't the only emotion that makes his cheeks flush. "Whatever you want it to be," he says with a not-quite-casual shrug, and the heat I feel has nothing to do with the giant grill in front of me.

* * *

His house is…cozy. A small ranch-style a mere two miles from my own street, it's homey and warm and comfortable and absolutely nothing like the worst-case-scenario bachelor pad my panicking mind had fleetingly imagined when it realized he'd never invited me over. There are no black leather couches, no ugly, cold-looking furniture, no pub signs on walls or Star Wars posters hanging in hallways. It's welcoming and comfortably elegant, with a brown sofa and a burgundy loveseat arranged facing a reasonably-sized flat screen television and a bookshelf littered with books, a few framed photos, and a couple of trinkety knickknacks. His kitchen is small but tidy, and when I pass the bathroom, it looks clean and not at all like it might be gestating bacterial cultures that would mystify the Forks High science faculty. The lone indication that a bachelor lives here is the large framed aerial photo of Wrigley Field above the sofa, but for an athletic PE teacher from Chicago, it doesn't seem like a stretch.

"Edward, this is really nice." It's also worth noting that it's tidy even though he wasn't expecting company.

"Thanks," he says, cupping the back of his neck as he glances around, trying to see his living space through new eyes. "It's, uh, finally starting to feel like home."

I nod. "Did it take you long to get settled?"

"It was a slow process," he replies. "I moved here and started working in the same week, so I didn't have much downtime to really get stuff set up."

"Well, you did a great job. It's really…cozy."

He smiles. "Thanks." His teeth scrape his hip. "So…coffee?" He looks unsure, awkward, mildly embarrassed…a few of my favorite Edward-things.

"Coffee would be great."

"I don't have quite the array of varieties to offer you, I'm afraid," he says, sweeping his hand in the direction of his kitchen. "Just run-of-the-mill medium roast."

"Perfect," I say, stepping into the bright kitchen as he turns on his own single-serve brewer. He retrieves a pair of mugs from a cupboard and I stand in front of his fridge, looking at a photo of a guy who is built like Edward, but has fairer hair and an altogether different nose. He's holding a baby wearing a Notre Dame onesie, and I gather that this must be the brother. When I ask as much, he nods. "Yeah, that's Riley."

"Is that his baby?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"Goddaughter. Riley's roommate from Notre Dame's daughter. Poor kid's going to be the first girl to be dressed up as Knute Rockne for Halloween."

I laugh, watching as he hits the button to set the brewer gurgling. He turns and leans against the counter, a small smile curling his lips. "What?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"It'll sound stupid."

"I like stupid." I wince, because if anything was stupid, _that_ was probably it.

"I know I said this place was starting to feel like home…" He trails off, rubbing his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. "It…seems even more like that with you standing in my kitchen."

There's no way I can _not_ kiss him after something like that, so I cross the small space and crumple the front of his shirt in my fists. "Smooth," I say, and he chuckles lowly.

"Now there's something I've never been accused of being."

I rise to my toes and press my lips softly to his; he reaches an arm out and snags me around the waist, deepening the kiss instantly. The faint trace of pineapple from our complimentary after-dinner fruit lingers on his tongue. The brewer spits and hums to signal that it's done, but Edward doesn't release my mouth and I'm pretty sure I've never cared less about a caffeine fix in my life. We make out against his counter, his hands gripping my hips and his thumbs just brushing the bare skin above my waistband. I bury my fingers in his hair, and he grunts softly as I press the length of my body to his, feeling the evidence of his excitement pressed between us. He bites my bottom lip in a move I'm coming to recognize as indicative of his mounting arousal, and it only serves to spark my own; breaking the kiss, I trail my lips up his jaw to his earlobe, which I suck into my mouth. I thrill at his answering gasp, and at the fact that his hands leave my hips and slide around to cup my backside, pulling me even more flush against him. Sucking the tender skin of his neck into my mouth, I reach between us to cup him through denim, reveling in his groan as I pull back to look into his flushed face.

"Where do you want this to happen?"

"What?" he mumbles, blinking at me as he attempts to swim to the surface of his pool of arousal.

"I'm going to do that thing you've never done, and God knows you've waited long enough for it, so…where do you want it? We can do it here, like this, with me on my knees and you holding onto the counter and pushing in and out of my mouth." He isn't breathing. "We can do it on the couch, with me on the floor between your knees. We can do it in your bed, with you propped up against your pillows, watching me between your legs. Wherever, however you want it." I punctuate this with another press of my palm to his groin. "It's up to you."

"Living room," he chokes out. "I..." His cheeks flame. "I think I should be sitting down for this."

I remove my palm from his fly and snag his hand in mine, ignoring the just-brewed coffee and leading him to his sofa. Pressing a gentle hand to the middle of his chest in encouragement, I watch as he lowers himself to sit, gazing up at me in something that looks a little like disbelief.

I borrow his script. "Is this okay?"

"Are you kidding?" he breathes, cupping his hands around the backs of my knees as he swallows. "I, uh, feel like that should be my line."

I smile and sink to my knees between his splayed legs, watching his eyes flash as they track my descent. Sliding a hand up his torso, I slip the first shirt button through the hole; his hungry eyes watch my hands as they trail down his front, freeing the line of buttons and pushing it open to reveal his chest, stomach, the line of hair that disappears into his jeans. It strikes me that this is the first time I'm seeing his bare torso. Jasper was right: soccer players – or, at least, this one – have phenomenal bodies. I scratch my nails feather-lightly down his torso, watching in satisfaction as his abdominal muscles clench.

I lean forward and rise to my knees, pressing a chaste kiss to the very center of his chest and feeling the heavy thud of his heart behind his breastbone. Moving to one side, I suck his nipple into my mouth, his hips lifting against my lower abdomen. As my lips find his other nipple, my hands find his belt buckle and deftly slip it open, his harsh breaths and the clank of the now undone buckle the only sounds in the room. I undo the button fly of his jeans as my tongue traces circles around his tiny, pebbled nipple and reach inside his open fly to press my palm to his hard-on. In response, he pushes his hips into my hand and I smile against his chest. He's semi-reclined, his back and shoulders pressed against the back of the sofa, but his head is upright, watching my every move. I smile up at him, and the gentle smile he bequeaths upon me is a contradiction to the desperate fire in his eyes.

Glancing down, I lick my lips at the sight of his cotton-clad erection, the blue and white striped fabric straining to contain him. He looks debauched and decadent, draped against his sofa with his shirt lapels and his pants hanging open; he's the sexiest thing I've ever seen, and I haven't even seen him naked yet.

"How do you want me?" I breathe, sliding my palm down the length of him to cup his balls through the cotton, and he hisses.

"What?"

I return my palm to the bulge at the front, rubbing him slowly. "Do you want me just like this? Topless? In my underwear?" I don't offer to strip entirely, not only because I can't, but because while I'm taking charge, the idea of being stark naked between his knees the first time I'm in his house seems oddly unsettling, even with what I'm about to do to him. I finger the hem of my shirt with my free hand as I watch my words penetrate his fog of arousal.

His eyes trail over me, and he swallows. "Can you…just in your underwear? I think I'll embarrass myself pretty quickly if you're topless, but…can you just be in your bra and your underwear?"

I don't answer, instead standing and pushing the waistband of my pants off my hips; his eyes flash as he watches them fall and puddle around my feet. I step out of them and he tracks my every move with hungry eyes. After I pull my top up and off and meet his gaze, he shakes his head slightly. "God, Bella, you're just…you're so pretty." His words are so sweet and honest and unintentionally sexy – Edward in a nutshell.

"Thank you," I say, returning to my knees, and his throat bobs as he swallows. Suddenly his hand flails out to one side and his fingers find purchase on the burgundy throw cushion nearby.

"Um." I didn't think it was possible for him to look more flustered, but to my delight, his cheeks darken even more. "Do you…" He holds up the pillow and I take it from him, affection joining the arousal buzzing through me.

"Thank you," I say again, shifting slightly to slip the cushion beneath my knees. I run my hands up his still-covered thighs and study his face. "Okay?"

A small smile. "You don't have to ask," he replies, a truncated version of my reassurance from our night under the stars, and I nod as I reach for his waistband. In a mime of my own movement, he reaches out a single finger to touch the tiny bow between my breasts, shaking his head slightly. "So pretty," he murmurs absently, almost to himself, and my fingers curl around the elastic and denim at his waist. At my unspoken encouragement, he lifts his hips, and I gently stretch both waistbands over his erection and pull them down his thighs. I don't look until I've dragged his pants to the floor, leaving them in a heap around his ankles; when I do look up, everything in me clenches.

His hard-on is resting against his stomach, the tip flushed purple; when I look up to see his face, it's as if there's an internal war waging between sheepishness and lust. When I wrap my hand around his length, his eyes fall closed and he bucks into the tight circle of my fist. "Bella," he whispers, immediately opening his eyes again. I meet his gaze steadily for a breath before I lean forward and press a kiss to the trail of hair beneath his belly button. He groans.

A kiss to his hip bone. He moans.

Another to the inside of his thigh. He gasps.

The other thigh. He hisses.

When I pull the skin of his other hipbone between my teeth, he pants out my name and I flick a glance up to him before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his tip that could almost be considered chaste if I weren't kissing his cock.

"Bella," he breathes again, and I look up at his face, flicking my tongue out to trace the slit on the underside of his head. I see his arms clench and realize instantly that he isn't touching me. Pulling back, I spy his hands curled around the edges of the couch cushions, his knuckles white.

"You can touch me," I tell him, running my hands over the backs of his, feeling them relax under my touch.

"Where?" he gasps, and I pry his right hand from the furniture and bring it up to cup my cheek before pulling the very tip of his index finger into my mouth. He swallows as his eyes watch my mouth, which kisses his fingertip gently.

"Wherever," I say, but I guide his hand to the back of my neck. "Everything's okay. You can touch me, you can move, you can say whatever you want."

"Can I…" He pauses and swallows again. I would have thought my positioning, our nakedness, his arousal would preclude his ability to be sheepish; I thought wrong.

"What?" I coax, my hand rewrapping itself around his length.

"When I…" He licks his lips and his eyes widen slightly when I do the same. "When I'm…"

Finally I clue in, saving him from the apparent mortification of saying, "Can I come in your mouth?"

"Yes," I breathe in answer to his unspoken question, and he looks mildly uncertain for a beat before his eyes flash again. "Yes," I repeat, before leaning in once more. When I finally take the head of his erection into my mouth, I feel his fingers tighten around the back of my neck. I slide my lips slowly along the length of him, delighting in the texture, the heat, the taste of his skin. He's too big for me to fit all of him in, and when I feel his tip at my throat, I wrap my fingers around the base of him and squeeze gently before slowly retreating, allowing him to drag against my tongue and teeth on his way out. Releasing him almost entirely, I press another soft kiss to his tip and swirl my tongue around his head, once again finding the ridge of skin on the underside. Glancing up, I see that he's watching everything, his eyes heated and heavy-lidded, his chest rising and falling with each heaving breath. Letting my eyes fall closed, I lean in and slide him back into my mouth, reveling in the breathless quality of his breathing, the barely-noticeable lift of his hips, the infinitesimal tightening of his hand on my neck. As I slide him in and out a few more times, I feel his hand leave my neck and reappear at my forehead. Mildly confused, I open my eyes to meet his gaze and realize that he's brushing my hair back so that he can see more; when I leaned forward, the curtain of my hair obscured his view. He gathers my hair into a rough approximation of a ponytail and holds it at the base of my neck as I continue working my mouth over his length, and to my delight, I realize that with every bob of my head, his hand is coaxing me forward and back. I don't even know if he realizes he's doing it, but that tiny flare of dominance sends a flood of my own arousal through me as I lick and suck and stroke.

As I watch his face, his head has dropped back against the sofa, his eyes still watching hungrily as my mouth envelops and releases him. "God, Bella," he gasps, and his voice is rough and needy and just pure sex. His hips are rocking more obviously up to meet me now, and from his posture, his face, his movements, I can tell that he's nearly lost to his need. I reach my free hand up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in my palm, and he grunts and gasps into the space above me, his hand tightening slightly in my hair. I moan around his length in encouragement, and suddenly his other hand is gripping my shoulder.

"Shit," he spits, and it's the first time I've ever heard him curse. It fuels my own arousal, and I increase my pace, my head bobbing between his legs, my hand gently rolling his sack, moans rumbling up my throat as he thrusts down it. "Bella," he gasps, and this time it's not an endearment but a warning. "Oh, God, Bella." I hum around him and he gasps as his hand fists in my hair, his hips bucking unthinkingly upward, shoving the length of him as deep into my throat as he can go. I watch his face as he comes, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth open in silent rapture, his entire body taut as he shudders, warm gushes of him flooding my throat. I swallow and continue to moan my encouragement as he spills the last trickles onto my tongue, gasping and licking his own lips as his eyes crack open, watching me as I gently slide my mouth up and down his softening length. "Bella," he says again, his eyes still afire as they watch my mouth despite his spent body.

He pulls me up to kiss me, and I'm mildly surprised albeit pleased that he doesn't hesitate to stick his tongue in my mouth. His panting breaths puff into my mouth as we kiss, and I feel triumphant at his rather obvious pleasure. "Wow," he murmurs against my lips, and I pull back to smile.

"Wow?" I echo, teasing.

He's evidently too spent to blush. "I, uh, see now what all the fuss was about." I, however, am not immune to the flush, and it suffuses my cheeks as he pulls my mouth back to his. "I want to taste you," he says between kisses, pulling me to straddle his lap, and I'm briefly confused given our virtually nonstop kisses until his meaning hits me, and I feel a fresh wave of want crest over my buzzing body. His lips and tongue kiss me so thoroughly that I can't imagine there's anything left of him.

"I can't," I say, as he pulls the left cup of my bra down and closes his mouth around my nipple. As he registers my words, however, he pulls back, eyes roving my face in confusion. "Lesson one," I infer, leaning into him again to press a gentle kiss to his creased forehead, and I feel the skin beneath my lips smooth out as the light bulb clicks on.

"Oh," he says softly, returning his lips to my nipple, his hands roaming up and down my bare back. When I feel like I might just melt into a quivering mass of want, I pull his head from my chest and gaze down into his eyes. He licks his lips, and God, I want him. "So I can't…tonight," he says, eyes flicking down to the bow between my breasts and back up again. "But you'll let me, right? After?"

"If you want to," I say gently, my hand finding his sharp jaw.

"I want to," he says, his voice and eyes intense. Before I can respond, he presses his mouth to mine again, mumbling "God, I want to" against my lips. After a few heated kisses, he pulls back to gaze up at me. "I can't do that, but…can I touch you? Outside?" His cheeks are sporting their ever-present flush as I smile softly down at him. "Let me make you feel good," he says, and I feel fingertips against the soaked silk between my legs. I still them with a gentle hand around his wrist.

"Tonight was about you," I whisper, and he smiles up at me, something that looks like mischief in his eyes.

"About me?" he asks, and I nod. "Well, in that case." He frees his hand from mine and returns it to the heart of me, rubbing slowly and gently over wet fabric. "I want to touch you." He tilts his head slightly to one side, and he makes quite the picture, hair in chaos, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, clothing in disarray. When he licks his lips, I know I'm a goner. When he smiles, I know he's won. When he speaks, it's not even a real question. "Please."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Also, a disclaimer: unlike Charlie and Edward in the last chapter, I'm a Yankee fan, though I can't say I'm too impressed by our recent acquisition of Kevin Youkilis. Blech. _

_Until next time. xo_


	11. Chapter 11

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. (Because why else do we do this?)

**Summary: **"Well, how about a pretty girl at the dinner table beside you, and we upgrade from euphemism to practice?"

**Acknowledgement: **So much thanks to HollettLA. You, lady, are sublime. xo

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Spring sunlight bathes my small bathroom in a warm yellow glow, and as I lather my hair, I let images from last night replay in my mind.

Edward gazing up at me, semi-reclined on his sofa, shirt and pants undone and hard-on resting against his belly.

Edward smoothing my hair away from my face, his hands tender.

Edward coming apart, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched.

Edward overcome and catching his breath, eyes soft as his chest rises and falls with his quick breaths.

Edward making me come, gentle fingers pressed against my underwear.

Edward asking me to stay over.

Given the time of the month and the fact that I hadn't anticipated the invitation, I was forced to decline. In fact, Mother Nature may have been doing me a favor last night, because as I flash back to the picture he made sprawled on his sofa with his clothing in disarray and his prominent erection resting against his toned stomach, I acknowledge the very real possibility that, if not for my cycle, I may have straddled him right there in his living room and shot our whole "going slow" plan to hell. That said, when I woke up alone in my bed this morning and instantly felt bereft at his absence, I realized immediately how deep in this I am.

Once I'm dried off and am fastening my bra, I hear the muffled thud of a knock at my front door. Throwing on jeans and a top and wrapping my hair in a towel, I hustle down the stairs and pull it open to find Edward standing on my porch with a tray holding two coffee cups and a plastic bag with two Styrofoam takeout containers.

"Hi," I say brightly, ignoring my sudden swell of inexplicable relief at his unexpected appearance.

"Hi," he returns, eyes flicking up to my turban-style headwear.

"I just got out of the shower," I say unnecessarily, and when he flushes, I know immediately that he's picturing me topless. "Behave," I tease as I lift my chin in the direction of the plastic bag. "What's that?"

"French toast," he says. "I was going to bring you bagels, but to my eternal surprise, Forks is sadly lacking in the bagel shop department."

"Forks is sadly lacking in a lot of departments," I tell him, stepping to one side so that he can come in. I lead the way to the kitchen, and he places the coffee and the food on the countertop. "You brought me breakfast," I muse, and I don't know why I'm surprised.

"It seemed the, uh, gentlemanly thing to do," he confesses, his cheeks darkening, and I can see memories of last night flashing behind his eyes. He licks his lips, and when I do the same, his eyes drop immediately to my mouth.

"Busted," I rib him, and immediately his focus returns to my eyes.

"What?"

"Has anyone ever told you that your face is an open book?"

"Yes," he says simply, then smiles. "In fact, I do believe you essentially implied that exact thing the first time we met in my office."

"I did?" I scan my memory as I pull two plates from the cupboard.

"Something along the lines of you calling me out for blushing when you first mentioned the Sex Ed curriculum."

"Ah. Yes. Well, you did."

He nods. "I did."

"But you never blushed in class," I say, retrieving knives and forks from a drawer and two mugs from another cupboard.

"No." He takes the mugs from me and pours the coffee into them from the takeout cups. When he notices I'm studying him, he shrugs. "You caught me off-guard."

"Hm."

"Syrup?" he asks, and I point toward a nearby cupboard as I grab the creamer from the fridge. When I turn, Edward is standing beside my little table for two, and as I stare at him, it occurs to me that he looks just slightly too big for my tiny kitchen, and that he might even be too big for my tiny life, but for perhaps the first time in that tiny life, I think that maybe I understand what all of those romantic poets are writing about.

* * *

I'm clutching my lunch sack tightly in my fist when I walk across the gym floor on Tuesday, the clicking of my heels echoing in the cavernous space. When I arrive in his doorway, Edward is sitting on his sofa with a sea of catalogs on the floor in front of him and a deep frown on his face. When he registers my presence, he looks up and grins. "I was hoping you'd still come."

I shrug. "I sort of like our Tuesday lunch dates. Though I admit to being mildly disappointed that we won't be talking about anatomy and procreation today."

"We can talk about procreation anytime you want," he says and flushes even as he waggles his eyebrows.

I smile and lift my chin in the direction of his magazines. "What's that?"

His frown returns. "Just doing some sorting."

"Why the frown?"

"This couch is really uncomfortable."

I laugh outright. "Yeah, it is."

As if he's suddenly remembering, his eyebrows leap. "You've been sitting on it for weeks! Why didn't you say anything?"

"I figured you knew. It is, after all, in your office."

"Yeah. I generally use it more as a shelf than a couch." He shifts his weight. "Jesus, this thing's awful. I'm so sorry."

I shrug. "Don't worry about it." I smirk at him. "Besides, it's probably a good thing. It seems you and I tend to get into trouble when there are comfortable couches in the vicinity."

His face is like a movie screen, and I can see exactly what pictures are flashing through his mind as he stares at me. Finally, he licks his lips. "I don't know if trouble is the word I'd use." He shifts again and gestures toward his desk chair. When I open my mouth to protest, he shakes his head. "I'm trying to be a gentleman way late in the game here."

I settle into his – admittedly comfortable and quite ergonomic – desk chair and set my lunch on his desk, reaching in to withdraw lunch.

"Bella Swan," he gasps, and when my eyes fly to his, he's looking at me in surprise.

"What?"

"Is that…a _salad_?" He points at my Tupperware, and I roll my eyes. He's looking entirely too smug, and I know just the way to bring him back down.

I arch one eyebrow and pin him with a pointed look. "I suppose you're rubbing off on me in more ways than one."

His mouth opens and closes, and the pink makes an appearance. "Wow."

"Careful, Mr. Cullen," I tease, popping the lid off my salad. "I know what buttons to press."

Despite his mild discomfiture, he meets my eye and doesn't look away. "Oh, believe me, Miss Swan. I know."

We stare at each other beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights of his tiny office until finally I lick my lips and break his gaze, rummaging in my lunch sack for my plastic fork. "What's your next health unit?" I ask, finally locating the utensil.

"Alcohol and drug abuse and addiction," he replies with a small grimace.

"Sounds like fun."

"Oh, yeah. Loads." He glances up at me, wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. "Believe me when I say it will be dull by comparison: no pretty girl at the desk beside me, and no masturbatory euphemisms to brighten the planning process."

"Well, how about a pretty girl at the dinner table beside you, and we upgrade from euphemism to practice?"

His eyes flash, and he licks his lips. "As…_titillating_ as that suggestion is, I believe I'm indebted to you in that regard. And believe me, as soon as I have the opportunity, I intend to even out the balance."

The lettuce dangling from the plastic tines of my fork is quivering in a pretty close approximation of what the rest of me is doing. I'm racking my brain for a response when Edward's eyes look past me, and I follow his gaze to see Jacob peeking into the office, one large hand gripping the doorframe.

"Hey, Coach. Hi, B—Miss Swan." I give him an awkward wave, and he returns his focus to Edward. "Coach, what time's the bus leaving on Thursday?"

"Three o'clock," Edward replies. "Spread the word."

A quick nod and Jake disappears again; when I glance back at Edward, I frown. "Thursday?"

"Weather's looking nasty for Friday, so their coach bumped the game up a day to attempt to fit it in."

"Oh." I spear a carrot and frown down at it. What a boring lunch.

"You're wishing you could morph that into a slice of greasy pizza right about now, aren't you?" Edward teases, and I nod.

"You know me too well," I admit, and the smile he bestows upon me is suddenly soft.

"I'm learning," he says, and a warmth seeps through me that has nothing to do with arousal.

* * *

"I want to marry Atticus Finch," Angela says dreamily as we stand waiting for our drinks at the café after the Wednesday night showing of _To Kill a Mockingbird_.

"Jimmy Stewart will be crushed," I deadpan as I zip my change purse closed and return my wallet to my bag. "Though I can't say I disagree with you. It's always my favorite book on the syllabus. Every year."

"It was my favorite when I had to read it way back when," Angela agrees with a nod. "But for entirely different reasons."

"I know. Back then I totally identified with Scout."

"Now I want to bang Gregory Peck."

I swivel my head to stare at her, and I can feel the surprise on my face. "Are you sure you're not Jessica?"

She laughs. "No, I'm most decidedly not Jessica. Jessica is enjoying pretty regular orgasms with kielbasa-boy, from the sound of things. I, however, will likely die an old, eccentric, spinster art teacher from the sticks."

"Stop it. You will not."

"I will. I'll have a 'special room' for my papier-mâché projects and ugly blown-glass ornaments everywhere and a cat named Picasso, and I'll smell like moth balls."

"That's ridiculous."

"Easy for you to say," she says, one eyebrow arching behind her glasses. "You and Mr. Cullen have been awfully smiley of late. Shall I take it to mean that things have progressed past the 'excellent kisser' portion of the program?" Evidently, Edward isn't the only one whose face is an open book. "Reeeeeeally," she says off my nonverbal response. "Do tell."

"Seriously," I say. "It's truly alarming how vividly you're channeling Jess right now."

She sighs. "Jessica's being nosy. I'm trying to live vicariously. Moth balls, remember?"

I echo her sigh. "I'm going on the record one more time as saying you're being ridiculous." Off her silence, I roll my eyes. "Yes. Things are…progressing."

"So he's a good kisser. What else is he good at?"

I lick my lips. "He's good with his hands."

Angela opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by the barista's voice. "Chai tea latte and a caramel latte."

"Thanks," I say, grabbing my cup and handing Angela hers.

"His hands," she repeats. "Do go on."

"He's, um—" I blow into the opening in the lid of my cup "—very well-endowed."

Her eyebrows jump again before waggling. "You guys have…" She trails off. Even horny, Angela still tries to be tactful, if only barely.

"We haven't had sex yet. We've just…done other stuff."

"How well-endowed?" she asks, hitting the button on her keyless entry.

"I can't imagine Mark's kielbasa has anything on Edward's…" I trail off, searching for an appropriate euphemism. "Baseball bat." I don't know if that was it, but Angela smirks.

"Excellent." We slide into the car. "Does he have a brother?"

She's kidding, but I instantly feel badly for her. It wasn't too long ago that I was lamenting the complete lack of social life in Forks, and if things work out for Jessica and Mark and for Edward and me, Angela will be the yin to Jasper's very gay yang. "He does, actually, but he lives in Colorado."

"Too bad," she says, giving me a sideways smile. "That said, I've always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains."

I laugh. "I'll do some recon for you."

"Terrific."

I peek at her face in the periodic illumination afforded by the passing streetlights. "You're not really worried about that, though, are you?"

She shrugs, and I can feel the weight of the confession she doesn't make. "It's a bit of a down week," she says. "Let's just say I'm looking forward to margaritas as much as I ever have."

"Ang, I promise I'll never let you wind up a crazy spinster art teacher. And I'd never _ever_ let you name your cat Picasso."

"Thank you," she says, her voice sincere. "And speaking of margaritas, Jess is evidently meeting Mark's parents for dinner on Friday night and wanted to know if we could move it up to Thursday."

"Wow. Meeting the parents?"

"I know."

"Go, Jess." I shrug. "Thursday's fine by me. Jasper in?"

"Yep."

We drive in silence for a while, and I'm finding it harder and harder not to worry about my friend. "Ang—"

"I'm really okay," she cuts me off, turning the defogger on. "I promise. I just…my mother made some comment about grandchildren, and my brother's getting engaged, and my students _hate_ the cubism unit, and then this morning my hot water heater crapped out."

"Wow…a real banner week, huh?"

I'm relieved when she laughs. "Yeah. _And_ I have PMS."

I nod my empathy. "Ugh. Sing it, sister."

She blows her bangs out of her face. "Thank you, though. Really. You're a good friend."

I sip my tea. "I wasn't kidding about the recon on Edward's brother."

She gives me a sideways glance. "Neither was I."

* * *

Following Thursday's pep rally, Jasper and I are using our free period to help a few members of the "spirit committee" – in this case, Alice, Rosalie, and Tori – clear the gym of its celebratory debris. I bend to pick up a few ribbons of blue and gold plastic that have come loose from the cheerleaders' pom-poms. Straightening, I see Edward rolling up the flag that bears the image of the school mascot.

"Do you want to keep that?" I ask, pointing at the bed sheet that the committee has spray-painted with "Good Luck, Spartans!" and all of the soccer players' names, as well as something that I imagine was supposed to be a soccer ball but wound up resembling a honeycomb.

"I guess we could hang it from the bleachers tonight," he says as he gazes up at it, and I nod as I place a foot onto the lowest rung of the stepladder. "Whoa there," he says, stilling me with a hand on my forearm. "I don't think so."

"I'm perfectly capable of climbing a ladder, Edward."

"You're wearing heels and a skirt. The first is potential for physical harm, and the second is potential for my inability to focus on the rest of my day, so please. Allow me." I step to one side and he grins, climbing the stepladder and reaching for the top corner of the sheet. Immediately, I realize what he meant: he may not be wearing a skirt, but the view from this angle is fabulous, and the way his dress shirt pulls taut across his shoulders isn't too shabby, either. He descends the ladder and drags it to the other side, climbing it once again and freeing the tape from the other two corners so that the sheet floats to the gym floor. When he's back on solid ground, he picks up the bundle and grins at me. "Help me fold?"

I nod, grabbing a handful of cotton and walking backward, stretching the distance between us as I find the corners of the fabric. The task is oddly domestic despite our surroundings, the context, and the crudely spray-painted letters on the linen, but the small smile on his lips and the spark in his eyes tells me that his mind isn't too far from where mine is. I return the smile, glancing down to bring the two corners together and back up to see him doing the same; I do it again, making the sheet one long bridge of cream-colored cotton between us. Edward walks toward me, doubling the sheet up on itself, and I grab his end and line it up with mine. "So," he says, bending to grab the fold that now drags across the gym floor. "I've been asked to be a dance chaperone." I laugh as he brings the fold up and I grab that as well, making the sheet a much smaller rectangle.

"Of course they ask the new guy, who doesn't yet have the self-preservation instincts to say no." One corner of his mouth lifts as he hands me the final fold, and the sheet becomes a close approximation of a perfect square.

"I'm a sucker," he agrees. "That said, I wouldn't mind some company."

I look up from smoothing the sheet to see him smiling down at me, one eyebrow arched. "Company?"

His smile widens. "Bella Swan, will you go to the dance with me?"

"Aw, man," I say, even as something inside me is doing somersaults.

His other eyebrow meets its partner. "Aw, man?" He shakes his head. "Thank God I went to an all-boys' school; that kind of response would have _crushed_ seventeen-year-old me."

I shake my head. "No, no!"

"That wouldn't have helped." But he's teasing, green eyes dancing.

"I meant, 'Aw, man, now I'm getting suckered into it, too.'" He seems to be debating whether this statement makes him feel better or worse. "I'd love to," I say, and he grins.

"Excellent."

I drop my gaze to smooth the sheet once again before lifting my head to say something appropriately charming, but the words die on my tongue when there's a sudden commotion in the hallway, and a second later three students burst through the propped double doors and into the gym. One of them is in my freshman English class; the other two are sophomores I had last year, who didn't come close to making it to the tenth-grade honors class I'm teaching this year.

"Faggot," one of them sneers, kicking the freshman – James – in the ribs.

"Whoa," Edward almost-hollers as he crosses the space to the doors in three long strides. "What do you think you're doing?"

"This little queer needs to watch himself," the other spits, glaring at James, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are suspiciously bright as he scrambles to his feet.

"And you two need to broaden your vocabularies; those are particularly insulting and entirely unacceptable words."

"Insulting to who?" the first kid challenges. "Nancy-boy here?"

_To whom_, I silently correct, fleetingly remembering essays with an overabundance of red ink in the margins.

"To me, for one," Jasper speaks up, stepping forward.

Both boys look confused, and James whips his head around in surprise. "What?" the second kid asks, frowning as he gives Jasper a wary look.

"I'm gay," Jasper replies. "So I find those words especially offensive."

"No fucking way," the kid mutters, and there's a squeak from somewhere behind me; I'd bet money it came from Alice. I guess that solves that issue, at least.

"Way," Jasper says with a casual shrug that does little to undermine his tense posture. Even without being able to see their faces, he and Edward make quite the imposing duo, standing shoulder to shoulder. The bullies share a baffled glance, and Edward steps forward.

"Congratulations, gentlemen. You just scored yourself a meeting with Principal Taylor." He gestures toward the gym door. "After you." The duo files out, and Edward nods his thanks to Jasper before glancing back at me for a beat before following them out.

"James, do you need to go to the nurse?" I ask, touching him gently on the shoulder. Standing closer, I can see that the skin around his left eye is red and slightly puffy; something tells me he'll be sporting a shiner in class tomorrow. He shakes his head slightly, and I feel a swell of sympathy for this boy, who has been a bright spot in my freshman English class: brilliant, sensitive, soft-spoken. Sad. Lonely. Victimized, evidently. The only child of a single mother who kicked her abusive husband out when James was in elementary school.

"I'm okay," he says, and Jasper reaches out to touch his shoulder, but the boy recoils. I glance sideways at my friend, expecting something like hurt or affront to be showing in his face, but his expression is open. Understanding.

"You need some ice," Jasper says, gesturing toward his eye. "Otherwise that's gonna swell shut." James nods and turns to make his way to the door. "James?" The boy glances back over his shoulder at Jasper, who offers him a small shrug and a sad half-smile. "It gets better."

I'm not sure if the expression on James's face is sadness or defeat. "Maybe. But I have to survive this part first."

Jasper simply nods. "Yeah."

They consider each other a moment longer before James nods once in return. "Thanks." He turns and leaves the gym, and Jasper meets my eye and lifts both eyebrows, his cheeks puffing out as he blows out a breath. He glances over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze to where the three girls are huddled together, eyes bulging. "Girls, I'm not going to ask you not to tell anyone what you heard today, because I'm not ashamed of who I am. That said, I like to keep my private life private, so if you could respect that, I'd appreciate it." They nod in unison, like perfectly-choreographed marionettes, and Jasper nods once in return before turning back to me. "Okay. If you've got this, I have a trigonometry class to get to."

"I've got this," I assure him, and before he can leave, I grab his bicep. "That was…really great of you, Jasper."

He shrugs. "Wish it would make a difference."

"You never know," I say before lowering my voice. "Those boys probably won't keep their mouths shut, though, even if the girls do."

"I know," he says simply, then leaves the gym.

I turn to the girls, who are still frozen. "So. Are we keeping the streamers?"

Later that night, following a margarita session in which Jasper recounts his unplanned "coming out" episode in the gym for Jess and Angela's benefit and Angela's spirits seem to be boosted by the tequila and the gossip, I return home and collapse into bed with every intention of reading the children's book Edward gave me on our first date. When I wake up to the sensation of my cell phone vibrating where it's sandwiched beneath my ribcage and the mattress, I fish it out from beneath me and answer it without looking at the screen.

"Did I wake you up?" Edward's voice is honey and velvet.

"No," I lie, cracking my eye open to peer at the clock on my nightstand. It's only ten thirty. I'm so lame.

"Liar," he says, laughter clear in his words.

"I'm so lame," I say aloud. "I had one margarita. Clearly, I'm past my prime."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he murmurs, and despite my exhaustion and lingering buzz, warmth spreads through me.

"Did you win?"

"We did. 3-2."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"So you won the regular season?"

"We did."

"We should celebrate."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I can buy you dinner."

He chuckles. "Bella, I appreciate the offer, but there's something about the idea of you footing the bill this early in the game that doesn't quite sit right with me."

"Okay, then, how about I make you dinner?"

"Really?"

"Really. Besides salad, what do you like to eat?"

There's a silence on the other end of the phone line, and after a brief moment of confusion, I remember his words from the other night, his request to return the favor. _I want to. God, I want to._ When he speaks again, his voice is rough. "I'll eat whatever you make me."

"Are you blushing right now?"

"I'm a lot of things right now." What follows is the most sexually charged over-the-phone silence I've ever experienced, and when he clears his throat, I wish instantly that he were sitting beside me so that I could see the inevitable flush of his cheeks, the telltale darkening of his eyes. "What time do you want me?" he asks finally.

_All the time_, I want to tell him, but even from the safety of my cocoon of bedclothes, I don't have the gumption. "Six?"

"Perfect." Another pause, then his gravelly voice. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

* * *

"That was fantastic," Edward says on an exhale, rubbing his flat stomach and leaning back in his chair. "I'd ask for the recipe, but I'm a disaster in the kitchen."

"It's pretty hard to mess up," I tell him. "Really, you just cook the penne and then toss it with the feta, basil, olive oil, and diced tomatoes."

"Still too much room for error." He smiles. "See, you think my affinity for salad is a question of health-consciousness, but really it's a lack of culinary ability."

I laugh as I reach for his plate, but he stills my movement with a gentle hand around my wrist. "No way. You cooked. I get dishes."

"I have a dishwasher," I protest. "All they need is rinsing."

"Then I get to rinse." He slides my plate from between my elbows. "You sit." I watch as he clears our plates and silverware from the table and crosses to the sink; I gaze unabashedly at the pull of his shirt over the muscles of his shoulders as he shifts, ogle shamelessly when he bends to slide the plates into the lower rack of the dishwasher. When he pushes the dishwasher door closed and turns to face me, drying his hands on my yellow and green dish towel, I consider the picture he makes, long and lean, socked toes curling around the edge of the mat in front of my sink.

"So," he says, bunching the towel into a ball and dropping it on the counter behind him.

"Coffee?" I ask, and his eyebrows jump almost imperceptibly; I suspect that for as long as this lasts, coffee will never cease to be a euphemism. He reaches up a hand to cup his neck and glances over at the Keurig sitting beside my teakettle before returning his eyes to me.

"Do you want coffee?"

I don't know what kind of coffee we're talking about right now, and his expectant gaze is surprisingly enigmatic. I finger the stem of my wineglass. "I'm going to finish this first," I say, and his eyes track the movement of my hand. "But you can help yourself."

His eyes flick to the carousel of single-serve cups before returning to me. "I—" He trails off, shaking his head, and I marvel at the two sides that exist within him: the sexy, confident, quick-witted side and the hesitant, chivalrous, nervous side.

"Edward?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you nervous?"

He blows out a breath, and while I had worried that pointing out his discomfort might make it escalate, it seems to have had the opposite effect: his shoulders drop and he runs a hand through his hair. "I'm not very good at…transitions."

"Transitions," I repeat, and he shifts his weight. I trace the base of my glass. "Subsequently, previously, eventually, next, then, before, after."

He frowns. "What?"

"Sequential transition words," I say. "Those are common ones used to signal continuation."

His frown gives way to an affectionate smile. "Word girl," he murmurs, pushing off the counter and crossing the kitchen to stand before me. I turn slightly in my chair to face him. "And which would you choose in this situation?"

"Next," I suggest, gazing up at his face.

He nods. "And what's next?"

"Logic would suggest…dessert."

He licks his lips. "I know you spent the afternoon baking," he says, reaching out a hand and cupping my jaw. "But it seems to me that cookies would go much better with literal coffee than metaphorical coffee."

"What goes with metaphorical coffee?" I ask, tilting my head into his palm.

He doesn't answer verbally, instead opting to grab my hand from the table and pull me up to stand before him. In lieu of words, he kisses me. At first, his mouth is gentle and sweet, but before long the kisses escalate, and I feel his hands grip my hips and lift me to sit on the wooden table. As his tongue slips into my mouth, his hands are sliding up and down the outsides of my thighs, his fingertips slipping just under the hem of my skirt before retreating and sliding down to my knees. Just as I'm debating the implications of wrapping my legs around his waist, his tongue leaves my mouth and he returns to the gentle, closed-mouthed kisses we started with before pulling away entirely.

"So, Bella." He gazes down at me with fire in his eyes, his hands still tracing maddening lines up and down my thighs. "Where do you want this to happen?"

I wonder briefly if he felt the same instant surge of heat when I posed that question to him a week ago, and the knowing smirk curling his lips hints that he probably did. "My bed," I murmur, and his eyes darken in response. "I want to see you in my bed."

He steps back and I slide from the table, weaving my fingers through his and leading him from the kitchen and up the stairs.

Once inside my bedroom, he spins us so that he's backing me toward the bed, his mouth eager against mine. I run my hands beneath his shirt, up the warm skin of his stomach, feeling the subtle dips and swells of his muscles. He mimics my action, sliding his hands up my ribcage and cupping just below my breasts. After a brief hesitation, he returns his hands to my waist and finds the hem of my top, pulling it up and breaking the kiss to drag it over my head. He smiles down at me, dropping the shirt and smoothing my hair down before leaning in and capturing my mouth again. I feel the edge of my bed at the backs of my knees and Edward's gentle hands pushing me gently to sit. As our mouths part, he licks his lips, gazing down at me.

"So." He licks his lips. "How do you want _me_?"

"In your boxers," I breathe without hesitation, and he wastes no time in pulling his shirt over his head, the neckline further tousling his already-disheveled hair. I scoot back slightly on the bed as he reaches for the top button of his jeans, and the gentle smile he bequeaths upon me is a contradiction to the desperate fire in his eyes. Once the last button in the short line of his fly is undone, he pushes the denim from his hips and it falls to the floor, leaving him only in black and white plaid boxer shorts, a now-familiar bulge tenting the front of them. He steps forward, bringing the fronts of his thighs in contact with the mattress before bending at the waist and pressing a tender kiss to the middle of my chest. Then his mouth moves to one side, kissing the swell of my right breast before moving the other way, doing the same to my left; I wonder idly if he can feel the hammering of my heart with his lips. Warm hands slide between my back and the bed, freeing the clasp of my bra before relocating to the front and dragging it from my body.

"Tell me how you like it," he breathes, swirling his tongue around the tight knot of my nipple. A moan is my answer, and I can feel his smile against the skin of my breast. "Slow and gentle?" he murmurs, kissing a line of fire down my torso as he settles on his knees on the carpeted floor of my bedroom.

"Yes," I gasp, and his hands slide up and beneath my skirt, gripping the waistband of my underwear and sliding them down my legs. He leaves my skirt on, pushing it up and out of the way and leaning in; his tongue traces the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and I feel my back arch. Just as my spine resettles on the mattress, his mouth is on me and I buck up again. My hands are fisting in my quilt, and when I feel cool air on my wet, heated flesh, I glance down the landscape of my body to see his eyes piercing me from between my legs.

"You can touch me," he says, and it doesn't escape my clouded brain that he apparently remembers every word I said to him the other night. I release the bunched cotton from my right hand and relocate it to his head, threading my fingers through his soft hair. He smiles up at me and lowers his head once more, swiping his tongue against the crease of my other thigh before biting me gently on my fleshy inner thigh. "Guide me," he breathes into my skin. "Show me." I fist my hand gently in his hair and he takes my nonverbal cue, returning his mouth to my center, dragging his flat tongue over me.

"Slow," I gasp in reminder, and he finds a torturously slow rhythm, dragging his tongue up for a few strokes before improvising, adding a swirl around my clit each time he reaches the top of my lips. He repeats this motion as I glance down; he must register my shift, because his green eyes slide open and focus on my face as his mouth continues to work. I can see pink flashes of his tongue against my pink flesh, and the intimacy of the moment nearly bowls me over. I want to let my head fall back, but I don't want to take my eyes off his face.

"More," I gasp, and he picks up the pace slightly, his tongue lapping at me and teasing the nub of nerves with every upward stroke. I open my mouth to say it again, but he beats me to it, his tongue moving ever-so-slightly faster, the pressure ever-so-slightly more. Each time I think I'm going to die if he doesn't give me more, he increases the speed of his tongue against my flesh incrementally, just enough to feel like more but not nearly enough to launch me over the edge. I'm writhing and moaning and rocking my hips, spreading my legs as wide as they'll go, feeling like I'm all sensation. My thighs and my spine and the small of my back are tingling, and the soft, wet swipes of his tongue are combining with the warm pants of his breath to keep me teetering on the precipice but never pushing me over it.

Suddenly his mouth is gone and my eyes pop open just as his hands find the waistband of my skirt; he slides it gently off my legs before returning his mouth to me and slipping a finger inside my body. The added sensation of penetration is nearly enough to tip the scales, but after a few slides in and out, I feel his mouth leave me; when I look down, he's gazing up at my face, bright spots of color high on his cheekbones. "Is it okay to…" He licks his lips, and I think I could come without him even touching me. "Can I…put my tongue inside you?"

"Yes," I pant, my hips still bucking even without the assault of his mouth. "God, yes." I feel his fingers slip from my body and his tongue replaces them, his hands coming to rest on my hips and holding me to the bed. "Edward," I gasp, and I feel more than hear him moan, the faint rumble pulsing against my core. The sensation of his tongue curling inside of me is a new one, and the horizon's edge of my release is suddenly hurtling toward me.

"Edward," I pant again, and my fingers tighten in his hair. "I'm—oh, I'm—"

He doesn't relent in his assault, his tongue curling and licking as my breath catches in my chest and my body pulls tight, my back bowing as my shoulders curl off the bed, my hips bucking once, twice before going still as the rest of me quivers and shakes in his hold, his tongue slipping out and sliding against my clit as I tremble and shudder. He licks a few more stripes up my now-sensitive flesh and I loosen my hold on his hair, finding his biceps with my hands. I pull him up and over me, wrapping my arms and legs around him as my body hums, and I press my mouth to his, the faint trace of my own taste lingering on his lips only briefly. He grunts as I shudder beneath him with the aftershocks of my orgasm, and I can feel the hard length of him behind the cotton of his boxers. Releasing his shoulders, I reach down between us, pushing the waistband down and wrapping my hand around his length. "Oh, God," he groans, and the thick need in his voice reawakens my own barely-receding arousal. I slide my palm up and down against him and push his boxers farther down his legs until I can capture them with my feet and slide them the rest of the way off.

"Oh, God," he says again, his erection sliding against my thigh, his fingers brushing gently against my swollen slick core, and I moan.

"Edward," I gasp, and his hand is clutching my hip nearly hard enough to bruise when suddenly his erection is slip-sliding against _me_, against my wet flesh, dragging against my clit, and I moan as I feel him.

"Shit," he hisses, but his hips don't stop their motion, dragging his hard-on against me and painting himself in the evidence of my arousal. "Can I…" He trails off, canting his hips. "Can I…just…the tip?"

"Oh, God," I moan, wanting so much more than the tip. "Yes."

"Bella, I don't have…"

"Just…pull out," I gasp, clutching his hips. "Pull out before you come. You can come on me."

"Bella," he mutters, and I feel his tip at my entrance. "We shouldn't be doing this," he adds, pushing just the tip inside me and stilling.

"Oh," I whimper, clenching my muscles around his head and he sucks in a breath. "More," I plead, rippling around his tip, and he slides in another inch before his eyes fall closed and he stills again. "More, Edward."

"This…this is so bad," he says as he obeys, sliding deeper, and I buck up against him as he begins to hit depths that haven't been hit in far too long.

"So good," I correct him, and when he bottoms out inside me, we both groan.

"So good," he amends. "Bella," he murmurs, and fooling around is suddenly a home run: I'm having sex with Edward. Unprotected, unplanned, unsafe sex. But fuck me, is it ever good.

I don't realize I've spoken until Edward growls, and I realize that I actually said "fuck me" out loud; judging from the sudden increase in his pace, he likes a little dirty talk, and I can't imagine anyone's ever murmured naughty little nothings in his ear, so I opt to help him check another first off his list. "God, Edward, just like that," I gasp, and I don't even have to try to make my voice breathless as he drives in and out.

I didn't plan it, and it flies in the face of the going-slow plan, but I can't regret anything because the way Edward's sliding in and out of my body is too damn good for my brain to focus on anything else. But it's more: the slide of his thighs against the inside of mine, the slide of his lower belly against mine, the penetrating gaze of his blue-green eyes… these tiny little intimacies that bracket the fact that he's inside of me.

I'm still hypersensitive from the effects of his tongue, and it doesn't take long for me to be cresting once again, whimpering and bucking up against him as a second, only marginally less intense orgasm crashes over me, my body tightening around the solid length of his.

"Oh, oh, God, I have to…" Suddenly he's gone, and as the last licks of my climax shudder through me, I feel him press his rigid length against my sensitive clit as the warm spurts of his release splash against the soft skin of my stomach. "Ohhhhhhh," he moans as he comes, bucking against me, and I watch his face clench and his glassy eyes peer down into mine, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His arms give out and his body slumps down into mine, our wet stomachs sliding against each other with each ragged breath.

"Wow," he pants after a few moments of nothing but harsh breaths, and I squeak out one short, winded half-laugh.

"Yeah."

He props himself back up to peer down into my face, looking adorably stunned and arousingly tousled. "We're terrible examples." He doesn't look at all upset about this fact.

"We are." I'm not too bothered by it, either.

He glances down between us, and when he looks back up, I wish I could tell if he were blushing beneath the flush of arousal. "We also keep making messes."

"We do." I feel like I should be at least mildly dismayed at the gradually cooling substance theoretically gluing us together, but I'm not.

"Do you, um, have a towel?" His top teeth find his bottom lip, and I grin up at him before lifting my head from the bed to kiss his talented mouth.

"I do. I'll get it." He makes a move to roll off me, but I still him with a hand at his hip and he looks at my face expectantly. "A-plus, Mr. Cullen."

He beams. "Yeah?"

"And then some." I kiss him again before sliding from the bed to retrieve a damp washcloth and a hand towel from the bathroom. When I return to my room, I pause in the doorway.

My quilt is made of patchwork fabric in the colors of springtime, blues and purples and greens and yellows that remind me of wildflowers beneath sunshine. Seeing it draped casually over his hips makes it look more feminine than it ever has, and despite the contradiction, if I thought he looked like he belonged in my foyer, it's got nothing on what he looks like in my bed.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"I just never would have guessed that our modest little English teacher had such a kinky side."

**Acknowledgement:** Thanks, as always, to HollettLA, who agrees with my assessment of the color pink and whose general awesomeness is in no way affected by her lack of an "ucking F key." xo

* * *

**Chapter 12**

"I really do have to get going," Edward says for the third time, but the way he wraps his arms around my torso contradicts his words, and I scoot backward slightly to feel the warmth of his bare chest against my back. Waking up pressed against him is nearly as thrilling as what happened last night.

Okay, that's a lie. But it's pretty awesome.

"Yeah," I agree, also for the third time, and he chuckles into my hair.

"I have a few errands to run before tonight," he adds, voice muffled, and my eyes pop open. I had forgotten about tonight.

"Aw, hell."

He shifts, and suddenly he's peeking at my face from behind my shoulder, eyebrows arched. "'Aw, hell'?" he echoes, and I roll to my back so that he can see my face.

"I have to find something to wear."

He shrugs. "Wear whatever you want."

"Oh, sure. You'll show up looking like you do, and I'll trip in looking like a hobo."

"Looking like I do?"

"You know," I say, waving at his general person. "The PE teacher who looks like sex on a cracker even in sweatpants." This man had his tongue – not to mention other parts of him – inside my body this side of eight hours ago, and yet at my simple words, he blushes. "And I can't dance," I continue, "so the least I can do is make an attempt to upgrade from my bargain rack teacher-wardrobe."

"Well, believe me when I tell you no one will be expecting us to spend hours tripping the light fantastic." He grins. "As I understand it, our duties are more along the lines of 'don't let anyone spike the punch and make sure the kids to keep it PG-13.' And besides," he adds, leaning in to press a light kiss to the tip of my nose, "I'm quite fond of your teacher-wardrobe." He pulls away, his flush darkening, and I frown.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"You're blushing. More than you were a minute ago." I poke the middle of his chest with a teasing finger. "What were you just thinking about, Mr. Cullen?"

He licks his lips, and though cheeks flush even darker, his eyes meet mine. "I was thinking about how, all week long, I'd been imagining pushing your bargain-rack teacher's skirt up like I did last night."

I swallow and lick my lips. "Okay. If you really have errands to run, you should probably leave now, otherwise you're not getting out of this bed."

A rough chuckle escapes him. "As tempting as that is, next time I find myself in your bed, I should probably be, uh, better prepared." He's gazing down at me, and I see a brief flicker of regret behind his eyes. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't," I say, cupping the back of his neck in my palm. "_That_ was perfect. And fine. And something I wanted as much as you did."

"Still…" He trails off, finally shaking his head. "Believe me when I tell you I'll be ready next time."

"Next time, huh?"

Blush. "Yes." He licks his lips. "Thank you again for dinner."

I give him the sauciest smile I can manage knowing I'm sporting bed hair and last night's mascara. "Thank you for dessert."

He swallows. "I'll, uh, pick you up at seven? The dance is from eight until midnight."

"Okay." I run a fingertip down the side of his neck. "Are we on clean-up duty?"

"No."

"So we're done at midnight?" My fingertip traces his collarbone.

"We are."

"How about you come over afterward?"

His eyes flash. "For coffee?"

"Are you really going to want coffee at midnight?"

"It is a little late for caffeine," he agrees, shivering slightly as my fingertip circles his nipple.

"So maybe you just come over to stay?"

"Perfect." He finds the hollow of my throat with his lips, and just as I think maybe he'll stick around for coffee – metaphorical or otherwise – he pulls back and presses a gentle kiss to the tip of my nose. "See you at seven."

* * *

"I can't wear pink."

Jess looks me over before returning her focus to the rack. "With your skin tone and coloring? Why not?"

"Because I am, for all intents and purposes, a grown woman going to a school dance. If I wear pink, I achieve an entirely new level of pathetic."

"I think you're reading too much into it," she says.

"Whatever. Nobody over the age of six looks good in pink, anyway."

"Come on. _Pretty in Pink_. It's a given," she argues, but mercifully flips past the cotton candy-esque cocktail dress.

"Yeah, how come no one ever points out the irony that Molly Ringwald actually looks god awful in pink?"

"You know, for someone who has a date with a pretty hot guy tonight, you're surprisingly cranky."

"Sorry. I hate shopping. And I'm tired."

"Oh?" She waggles her eyebrows and pauses in her perusal of the sale rack.

I roll my eyes. "Find me something that doesn't make me look frumpy, slutty, or like I'm channeling fifteen-year-old Bella, and I'll give you the details you so desperately desire."

"Deal," she says, her hands flying over hangers at twice their previous speed. "Can't go wrong with a little black dress," she says a beat later, pulling a short, strapless, sequined number from the rack.

"Unless said 'little black dress' looks like it belongs on stage."

"What's wrong with it?" she demands, holding the hanger up and cocking her head to one side as she studies the garment.

"It's a little…sparkly."

She huffs a sigh. "Okay. Tell me exactly what you have in mind."

"Demure, but sexy."

"Those two things seem contradictory to me," she mutters, but resumes her mission, flipping through hangers with the focus of a sniper rifle. "How do you feel about red?"

"Not favorable."

"Hmm." More flipping. "Ah!" She holds up a navy blue dress and I consider it.

"Better," I say, encouraged by the lack of sequins. "But can we find something not strapless?"

"How come?"

"Because firstly, I don't have enough boobs to wear a strapless dress and not spend the entire night hiking it back up my torso, and secondly, it's a little more skin than I'm comfortable showing around adolescent boys."

At this, Jess wrinkles her nose. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about them." A few more flips and she pulls out a plum-colored dress. It has a fitted bodice with a lace overlay covering the shoulders, and an open scoop back that looks like it would dip to about the middle of my back; a small line of covered buttons runs down the seam. It nips in at the waist to create an hourglass shape, and there is a pair of tiny bows at the front waist, slightly left of center.

"Oh," I say, nodding. "I like that."

"You look good in purple, too," Jess says, holding the hanger up to my shoulders and considering it. "You should definitely try this one on." She rummages through the rack to find my size and leads me to the dressing room. "You should wear your hair up, though," she says as she hands me the dress and plops down on the cushioned ottoman outside the curtained stall. "The back is sexy."

Once inside the small vestibule, I shimmy into the dress and manage to get it zipped without Jessica's intervention. I take stock of my reflection: the line of the dress is classic and hugs my body in all the right places, and it has the added benefit of making me appear to have more in the boob-department than I do. It's classic, and vaguely Hepburn-esque, and it makes me feel almost like I'm going to a dinner party in one of the movies Angela, Edward, and I are so fond of. I half-turn and check out the back: the scoop is low enough to be sexy, but not so low as to be inappropriate for the environment. I emerge into the outer area of the changing room and move so that I'm standing in front of the three-way mirror beside where Jessica sits.

"You have great shoulder blades," Jess says appreciatively, and I blush and frown.

"I didn't know it was possible to have 'great shoulder blades,'" I say.

"Well it is, and you do." She gives me one more head-to-toe pass and nods. "I think that's a winner."

"I think you're right," I say, glancing at my reflection once more in the three-way mirror before disappearing back into the changing room and slipping back out of the dress.

"Okay," Jess's voice comes from beyond the curtain. "Accessories?"

I chew my lip as I return the dress to its hanger. "Shit. What color shoes go with a purple dress?"

"Do you have nude pumps?"

"No," I say, stepping back into my jeans.

"We'll get some. And I actually have a clutch purse that would almost match that color perfectly; you're welcome to it."

"Awesome. Thanks." I pull my t-shirt back over my head and loop my purse over my shoulder before grabbing my new dress and sliding the curtain aside.

Jess beams up at me. "So we're done?"

"I think we are."

"Great," she says, catapulting herself to standing and following me toward the register. "Now, tell me about the fuck-hot piece of man-meat and his…man-meat."

I shush her as we approach the checkout, and I dig my wallet from my bag. By the time we're seated at the small café next door to the dress boutique, Jess's patience has evidently run out. "Quit stalling," she says as she bites into the slab of coffee cake in front of her.

"It's…Jess, it's amazing. Honestly."

"So the sex is good," she says as she chews.

"I mean…yeah. Well. Yeah."

She frowns before swallowing. "_Tell_ me the sex is good, Bella. It'll be a tragedy worthy of your syllabus otherwise."

"Well, we've sort of only…kind of done it."

"Okay, has teaching Sex Ed to a bunch of teenagers rubbed off on you guys? What the hell does 'we've-sort-of-only-kind-of-done-it' mean?"

"It means…he's…been inside me. But not…the whole time."

"Is that code for 'he pulled out'?"

"Yes," I say, relieved I didn't have to say it but embarrassed to hear it out loud all the same.

"Why?"

"We, uh, didn't have any condoms."

"Seriously. It's like you're seventeen."

"He makes me feel like I'm seventeen," I say before I can check myself, and her disbelief softens.

"Aw. That's actually sweet."

"Shut up."

"Really, though. How did it get to that point and you didn't have a condom?"

"We were…doing other stuff. At my house."

"And you don't have condoms at your house?"

"No."

She shakes her head. "And he doesn't carry them in his wallet?"

"Apparently not."

"Oh, Bella. I want to help you at the same time that I find your bumbling amusing and sort of precious."

"I'm doing fine," I say. _More than fine_, I want to add, but I have a feeling my face is already broadcasting that fact.

"Hello? It's 2013. Pick up a box of Trojans on your way home, okay?"

"I'm leaving that to him."

"Why?"

"I told him I was going to let him dictate how fast this goes. When he's ready and he has condoms on him, we'll use them."

Jess snorts into her coffee. "Seems like he was ready whether he had one handy or not."

"Maybe," I allow. "But…" I trail off.

"But what?"

"Never mind."

"Oh, hell no. Not when your face looks like that. What were you going to say?"

"It's just…it was…it was kind of hot." Jess sits back in her chair, staring at me with her mouth open. After a few beats of uncharacteristic silence, I feel myself start to fidget under her scrutiny. "What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing." A small smile crawls across her face. "I just never would have guessed that our modest little English teacher had such a kinky side."

I remember the rush of power – not to mention arousal – I felt at Edward's inability to rein in his desire. _Can I…just…the tip? _"You and me both," I tell her, taking a sip of my tea.

* * *

There's a knock at the front door, and I finish putting the back on my earring as I cross my small living room and pull the unlocked door open. "Still not locking it, huh?" he asks with a smile, and I quirk an eyebrow.

"Believe me when I tell you it will be locked tonight." His eyes darken in the setting sunlight as they trail me from head to toe. "Wow, Bella, you look beautiful."

I smooth my hands over the front of my dress. "Thank you. And ditto."

One of his eyebrows hitches as a corner of his mouth curls upward in a teasing smile. "I look beautiful?"

I nod. "Incredibly." He grins, and I gesture behind me. "I just need to change purses and I'll be all set." I step aside to give him room to step inside, but he stays where he is. I frown. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he says, and the trademark blush makes its first appearance of the evening. "I'm just…being awkward."

"Why?"

His hands burrow deeper in his pockets, his shoulders hunch, and he rocks forward on his toes slightly. "I, um…" He trails off, bottom teeth scraping his top lip, one hand emerging from his pocket to cup the back of his neck.

"Edward, what is it?" I take a step forward so that I'm half inside and half out, suddenly nervous. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, God, nothing's wrong," he assures me quickly, shaking his head. "I just…" He blows out a frustrated breath. "I'm so bad at this. I told you. At dating."

"Why?" I ask gently. "I think we're doing okay."

"We are," he agrees instantly. "We are. I just..."

"Edward, just tell me what's wrong."

"I brought a bag," he blurts, immediately flushing darker, and I frown.

"What?"

"A bag. An, um, overnight type of bag." His hands are back in his suit pockets. "I didn't want to seem presumptuous and knock on your door with luggage, but I also didn't want to leave you at some point this evening to run out to my car to get the bag." He looks so vulnerable, and I realize laughing at him is so not what he needs right now, but I'm helpless to stop the smile that stretches my mouth.

"You're adorable."

"I'm sorry?"

I step out onto my welcome mat and curl a hand around the back of his neck, bringing his mouth to mine. When I pull back, I smile up at him. "Hi."

His shoulders drop and he exhales. "Hi."

"Go get your bag. I'm almost ready."

He nods and nearly jumps down my porch stairs; I return to the kitchen and transfer my cell phone, license, credit card, cash, and lip gloss to the small clutch purse I borrowed from Jess. I hear a muffled thud from the direction of the door as I loop the strap of the purse over my shoulder; when I step back into the living room, Edward is standing on the mat inside my door with a small Nike duffel at his feet and a single, short-stemmed white rosebud in his hand.

"I figured a corsage might be a bit much, but I wanted to bring you something." He frowns. "As it turns out, lilacs are not good flowers to give, and sunflowers are enormous so I didn't really know what you would do with one, and I asked the lady at the florist and she said that white roses are timeless and would complement whatever you were wearing." His frown deepens. "And I cut the stem so that there weren't any thorns on it, but now I have no idea what you're going to do with it, because it seems silly to expect you to stand around holding a flower all night. I mean, maybe you have a vase?"

I step into his space and pluck the bloom from his fingers, smiling softly up at him. "It's beautiful. Thank you." He exhales and gives me a small smile. "Yeah, can you tell I never really took a girl to a dance before?"

"No," I lie, reaching up and fastening the rosebud into my knot of hair with the help of one of the numerous bobby pins I used to secure my DIY-do. "They don't have dances at boarding school?"

"They do," he says, his eyes unexpectedly soft as he stares at the flower in my hair. "But nobody really brought dates unless they had girlfriends. Our school used to invite a nearby girls' school to attend, but I never actually went with a date."

"I didn't realize this was going to be another first," I tell him as I gesture toward the door. I catch a glimpse of his smile as he turns and opens the door, stepping aside to let me walk out ahead of him.

* * *

The gymnasium where Edward spends most of his days is nearly as dressed up as the students milling about: balloons and streamers are adhered to every available surface and glittering silver cardboard stars and moons are affixed to the walls that usually hold motivational posters and championship banners. A massive black sign with the dance theme – "A Night to Remember" – hand-painted in silver stretches over the doors, and there is a long table set up near the back wall with a massive bowl of punch, a tower of cups, and bottles of water. A photographer is lurking in the far corner of the room with a gray backdrop tacked to the wall, and the deejay is just inside the door, the beat pulsing from his massive speakers assaulting people the moment they step through the doors.

"Evidently no one thought to inform the dance committee that 'A Night to Remember' is the title of the definitive resource of the sinking of the _Titanic_," Edward murmurs as we arrive and make our way to the table at the back of the room, and my answering laugh is swallowed by the pounding music.

Nearly an hour in, Edward and I are standing together near the refreshments table, watching the general population of Forks High School mill about the gym in small clusters, dancing and chatting and whipping out phones to snap pictures. I feel momentarily sorry for the photographer, who already looks bored.

"Hey, Coach. Ms. Swan."

"Hi, Emmett," Edward says.

"Punch?" I ask, gesturing toward the vat of red juice before me, atop which slices of orange float amid the ice cubes like lifeboats in a sea of glaciers. Emmett gives it a dubious look.

"No, thanks," he says, and I can't blame him. It does look rather suspect, spiked or not.

"Okay." He doesn't move along, though, and he keeps opening his mouth as if to say something before snapping it shut again.

"Emmett?" Edward prods. "Was there something you needed?"

"I, um, actually…had a question." He pulls at his tie and shifts his feet as he glances at his classmates hopping and dancing in clusters on the dance floor.

"Yes?" I ask, and he glances between Edward and me.

"It's about the, uh, health unit."

"Okay," Edward says easily.

Emmett scans the space around us once more before lowering his voice. "Like, how effective is pulling out?" he asks, and without my permission, my eyes fly to Edward, who is already looking rather lobster-like.

"Uh, I'm sorry?"

Emmett, to his credit, looks a little embarrassed as well, but judging from the intent way Rosalie's gazing at him from across the room, it's a timely question. "You know. Pulling out before you…uh…'ejaculate.'" He frowns slightly at the clinical word before continuing. "How effective is that as a birth control method? I think I, um, missed that part of class." I vaguely remember that he was snoozing on his desk during that particular lesson but realize that pointing that out now would be relatively futile.

For the first time since we started the sexual health curriculum, Edward looks like a deer caught in headlights, and when he takes a step away from me and situates himself behind the punch bowl, I frown in confusion until I see him shift slightly and realize that he's hard. He's purposely not looking at me, and I will my cheeks not to flush.

"Not always effective enough," I tell Emmett quickly, hoping he isn't surprised by Edward's lack of response or rather obvious discomfort. "Four out of every one hundred instances of withdrawal result in pregnancy, and some research exists that there can be enough sperm in pre-ejaculate to cause pregnancy." As I tick off the familiar statistics, I feel a tiny little seed of panic begin to take root in my brain. _Shit. We were so stupid._ Thankfully, given the timing, the likelihood that I'd get pregnant even if Edward did come inside me is pretty miniscule. "Does that help?" I ask softly, and I can feel Edward's eyes on me as Emmett nods. I glance over at him, and he still looks like a sinner in a confessional. "Anything to add, Mr. Cullen?"

He visibly swallows and turns to Emmett. "Is this an…immediate concern?" he asks, his expression open, and Emmett's sporting a very Edward-esque flush.

"I just…" He glances over his shoulder to where Rose and Alice are cheek-to-cheek and smiling, the latter holding up her phone to snap a picture. "Rosalie…wants to. With me. And I wasn't expecting it. We've been…waiting. But she told me she wants it to be tonight, wants it to be special, and I'm…not prepared." He shifts his weight. "The only place open in town is the convenience store." He gives me a pointed look, and I sigh. At Edward's confusion, I tell him, "Emmett's aunt is the night cashier." Small-town living strikes again. Edward considers this for a moment before nodding and clapping a hand on Emmett's shoulder.

"Come on," he says to Emmett, then, to me, "Be right back."

I nod and return my focus to ensuring that no "extra" ingredients get added to the punch bowl. "Hi, Ms. Swan," Rosalie and Alice say in near-unison a few moments later, and I smile. I'm not supposed to have favorites, but I always do, and this year, Rosalie and Alice are two of them.

"Hi, girls."

"Ms. Swan, I love your dress," Alice says, her eyes running up and down me as she nods. "Is that vintage?"

"Uh, vintage-inspired, I think." I shrug. "Honestly, I'm not much for fashion."

"Well, you look totally awesome," she says before glancing toward the gym doors through which Edward disappeared with Emmett. "And you and Mr. Cullen are totally cute together."

I'm thankful for the "ambience lighting" in the gym, as I'm pretty sure my cheeks are pinking. "Um. Thank you, Alice."

"I told you," Rosalie says, giving Alice a knowing smirk. "I totally told you."

Alice nods, her voice dropping slightly. "Was it, like, totally awkward talking about all of that sex stuff with him?"

"Uh, no," I say, absently wondering if I was ever this straightforward with my own teachers until I remember Coach Clapp. Definitely not. I'm working on elaborating when Alice leans in slightly.

"Ms. Swan, did you know that? About Mr. Whitlock?"

I consider the implications of the truth before deciding they're probably harmless. "I did."

She shakes her head. "I had _no_ idea. Like, _none_."

_No kidding._ "Well, you know, teachers try to keep their personal business…private."

"Yeah. Except Mr. Cullen," Rosalie says, leaning in a la Alice. "That was totally sweet how he kissed you after the game last week. _Everybody_ was watching."

"Yeah," I say. "I know." I give them a conspiratorial smile. "My dad comes to those games."

"Ohmigod, I'd be _so_ embarrassed if my dad caught me making out."

"Alice, they were hardly _making out_," Rose argues. "But yeah, God, talk about embarrassing." If this were Jess, I'd confide that it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as having my dad walk in on us dry-humping on my sofa. Suddenly, Ben Cheney is standing behind the girls and smiling at me over their heads.

"Hey, Ms. Swan."

"Hi, Ben."

He nods and then fiddles with the knot of his tie. "Um, Alice? Did you want to dance?"

"Oh! Sure!" She hands her phone to Rose. "Bye, Ms. Swan!"

"Bye, Alice," I say to her retreating back, and Rosalie and I watch in amusement as she begins jumping and shaking beside Ben, who looks mildly alarmed but makes a valiant attempt to follow her unique rhythm. Rose lifts Alice's phone and snaps a few photos.

"So she's not too heartbroken by Mr. Whitlock's disclosure, then?"

Rosalie glances over at me. "Yeah, I sort of thought you knew after the math slip-up," she says. "She was, like, freaking out that you would figure it out and say something."

"I didn't," I tell her. "Say anything."

"I know. You're awesome. We trust you."

Her simple declaration is almost better than three favorable teacher reviews, and I fiddle with the clasp of my clutch. "Thank you, Rosalie. That's very sweet."

"I mean it. All of the students like you. And Mr. Cullen. That's one of the reasons everyone thinks you guys are so cute together. Plus, you're both hot." She shrugs. "You'd have really cute babies."

I clear my throat. "Well, speaking of that…Rosalie, Emmett mentioned something about…tonight. I hope you don't think I'm overstepping my bounds, but since we talked about this before, I just wanted to…be sure. That you're sure."

"I'm sure." She turns to face me, and her eyes are nearly the same color as her ice-blue dress. "Ms. Swan, I had a first time and it sucked. It was awful. But I kind of feel like this is my second chance at a first time, and…I want it to be with Emmett. And I want it to be tonight. He's just…he's really sweet. And I love him." She shrugs. "What else matters?"

I sigh, thinking about second chances at first times with sweet boys. "Not a lot," I admit. "Just…the necessary precautions." She laughs and I smile, tapping my temple. "Sorry. Teacher-hat. Can't take it off."

She shakes her head. "Thanks, Ms. Swan. Really."

"You're welcome, Rose."

"Thanks, Coach," I hear Emmett say from behind me, and I turn to see Edward give him a nod. Emmett moves beside Rose to drape an arm over her shoulder and guide her back to the dance floor. Edward comes to a halt beside me, and we watch as Alice and Rosalie squeal and dance and laugh as Ben and Emmett stand nearby, sort of dancing and sort of just watching the girls do their thing. In fact, that seems to be the case on the dance floor as a whole.

"Okay, confession," Edward murmurs as we stand side by side, scanning the crowd.

"Yeah?"

"I just gave Emmett my condoms."

My head snaps to the side to stare at his profile. "What?"

"I took him back to my office to get some out of my desk, and evidently the students of Forks are taking our teaching to heart, because the little hornballs cleared me out." He sighs. "I couldn't exactly tell him he was out of luck, so I gave him the three I had in my wallet."

"All three?" I stage whisper, and he shrugs.

"They're teenagers," he says by way of explanation. "Things…regenerate quickly."

"That was awfully generous of you," I murmur, opting not to wonder aloud why he had three condoms for an overnight stay if teenagers are the only ones who "regenerate quickly." Instead, I silently count my blessings. "Well, _my_ aunt doesn't work at the convenience store," I say, hooking the top of my index finger onto the edge of his pocket. He grins down at me, running his palm over the back of my hand before unhooking my finger and interlacing our hands behind the blockade of the enormous punch bowl.

"I have more at home," he says, voice low. "It's just going to involve a detour."

"Fine by me," I reply, and his eyes flash as the deejay downgrades from a hip-hop dance song to Eric Clapton.

He smiles. "Wanna dance?"

I grin. "I thought we weren't expected to dance," I reply, even as I'm setting my clutch beside the upside down tower of plastic cups.

"We're not," he says, stepping into my space. "But it's kind of driving me crazy, being this close to you and not touching you." He settles his hands on my hips, and I loop mine around his neck as we sway back and forth. "I thought you said you couldn't dance."

"Seventh grade-style swaying without moving our feet is pretty safe territory," I tell him, and he is silent for a few sways before one hand leaves my waist to snake behind his neck. He captures one of my hands and brings it down between us, resting my palm over his heart and cupping his hand over it to hold it to his chest. His other hand leaves my hip and slides to the small of my back, pulling me infinitesimally closer but leaving just enough space between us to keep it respectable.

"Have I at least upgraded us to ninth grade status yet?"

"I think you launched us right to grandparent status," I tell him, tilting my head toward the dance floor, where Emmett has his tongue down Rosalie's throat and Ben has his arms wrapped around Alice from behind. "Seems to me that ninth grade status is more like a dry-humping-to-music style of movement."

"Tough to dry-hump to Clapton," Edward says.

"Indeed," I agree. "What are the odds that these kids have even heard this song before?"

"'Wonderful Tonight'?" he wonders aloud. "I don't know, isn't this one of those songs that's timeless and everyone knows it? Like 'Born in the U.S.A.'?"

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and spot Mike Newton filling a cup with the punch ladle and Jake standing beside him holding his own empty cup. "Hey, Mike?"

"Hi, Ms. Swan."

"Quick question. Can you sing 'Born in the U.S.A.'?"

He frowns. "The Miley Cyrus song?"

I give Edward a pointed look as Jake says, "Dude, that's '_Party_ in the U.S.A.'"

"Oh, that's depressing," Edward mutters. "Are we really old? We're barely even thirty."

"I'm _not_ quite thirty, thank you very much," I tease, then shrug. "Age is a frame of mind." I wave one hand in a vague gesture toward the deejay stand. "Musical selections, however, are the quickest way to date yourself."

"Evidently." He pulls me slightly closer. "I still maintain, though, that this is a classic."

"I like it," I admit, and the smile he gives me is a soft one.

"I like _you_," he murmurs.

"_Awwwwwwwwwww_," comes the exaggerated, mocking call from both Jake and Mike, who are peering at us over the rims of their plastic cups, and Edward flicks a glance at both of them.

"Season's not over, boys. Want to keep each other company on a timed three-mile?" The boys turn and disappear to the other side of the gym, and Edward grins down at me.

"What will you do when you can't threaten them with grueling training?"

He shrugs. "There's always manual labor. The basketball court needs waxing."

I laugh, but when I look back up into his face, he's studying me intently. "Everything okay?" I ask.

He nods. "Yeah. I just…I really do. I like you a lot."

I'm powerless against the goofy grin that stretches my face, and I'd swear the heartbeat thrumming beneath my hand is moving at a slightly faster clip that it was moments ago. "I like you a lot, too." He matches my grin and I feel his fingers dancing over the small of my back, as if he's restraining himself from pulling me closer. "So, is your first dance with a date turning out to be everything you had hoped?"

"Better," he says, and when he leans in to murmur in my ear, I can feel the vibration of his words against my palm, the puffs of his breath against my neck. "Unlike when I was seventeen, I get to take the girl home at the end of the night."


	13. Chapter 13

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary:** "Bella, I like lacy and silky as much as the next guy, but even before I've seen it, I can't imagine there's anything sexier than you wearing one of my t-shirts."

**Acknowledgement: **Bottomless gratitude for HollettLA, who backs up her grammar notes with logic like, "Just a feeling. You know, like people with arthritis predicting rain."

* * *

**Chapter 13**

The night is warm, a curling mist hovering just above the asphalt like a blanket as the smell of rain lingers in the air. My feet are mildly uncomfortable from my not-yet-broken-in heels, and my lower back is aching dully from spending over four hours standing in said heels, but all of those little discomforts are eclipsed by the feel of Edward's hand in mine as he guides me toward his car. His keys jingle as he pulls them out of his pocket and hits the keyless entry button before reaching for the handle of the passenger door.

"You know," I say conversationally as he swings the door open and gestures inside with a gallant sweep of his hand. "We never did dry-hump in the backseat of your car."

He falters slightly, hand dropping to his side. "No," he muses. "We didn't."

"I'm not advocating that we do it tonight," I hasten to clarify, but as his eyes dart from the vacant passenger seat to the backseat, I waver. "I mean unless that's, um…something you want to do."

His eyes widen slightly as his Adam's apple bobs behind the thin skin of his throat. "I, uh." He licks his lips and glances around us at the otherwise deserted lot before stepping closer to me. "I'd rather take you home and do…_that_…in a bed as a precursor to…other things."

I'm somewhat relieved; I'm quite fond of my new dress, and I'm fairly certain that ruching it up around my waist would negate its class, not to mention possibly tear it, given its general lack of wiggle-room. Added to which, I've been rather focused on the idea of getting Edward into bed since his suggestive comment during our slow dance hours earlier, and the foreplay-disguised-as-chaperoning has all but guaranteed that the going-slow portion of the program is well and truly over. I wouldn't trust myself not to co-pilot a repeat of our ill-advised decidedly-more-than-just-the-tip escapade from last night. "I'm very much okay with that," I reply, thrilling when he lowers his lips to mine. His kiss is sweet, chaste, and I'm just about to open my mouth and deepen it when he pulls back.

"Okay, we have a stop to make, and if we start that, we won't get there." I thrill at his implication, and as if he's read the pervy thoughts playing in my mind, he gives me his disapproving teacher look. "In the car, Ms. Swan." Another thrill, and I know instantly that as much as I adore sweet-boyfriend-Edward, I'm going to have to find a way to have sex with stern-teacher-Edward at some point in the near future. As directed, I settle into the passenger seat and watch Edward as he jogs around the car and takes his place behind the wheel. Once we're on the road, he snags my hand and interlaces our fingers, bringing my hand up to his mouth and kissing the back of it.

"Despite the fact that it necessitates a detour on our part, it was really great of you to help Emmett out," I tell him as I let my head fall back against the headrest and I gaze at his profile. I'm glad he's driving so that he's at least partially oblivious to the true degree to which I'm staring. He smiles at the road.

"Yeah, well, I could hardly harp on for a month about the importance of good decision-making and then tell him he's out of luck because I had big plans to get laid myself." I feel my eyes widen at his candor, and almost immediately he's sporting a similar expression as his head snaps in my direction and he opens and closes his mouth a few times. "I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I didn't mean…I mean, that sounded…that…" He shakes his head as if to clear it of the fog of babble. "I…wow, that was…alarmingly rude of me."

I squeeze his fingers between my own. "There's nothing wrong with what you said."

"Yeah, but…I just…'getting laid' is, um." He frowns at the road, and I use my free hand to unbuckle my seat belt and lean over the center console to bring my lips to his ear.

"Accurate," I murmur, letting my breath wash over his skin. "Because, Edward?"

"Yeah?" he croaks, his voice suddenly rough; I can see the muscle at the hinge of his jaw clenching.

"You are getting well and truly laid tonight." His exhale is audible, and I'm feeling inordinately pleased with myself – not to mention a little titillated – as I resettle in my seat. It takes everything in me not to smirk when I see the needle of the speedometer creep past fifty. "You might want to watch your speed," I suggest. "More often than not, there's a cop at the next intersection." He heeds my advice, easing off the gas, and I resume gazing at his profile as he swallows.

"So, uh…" He rolls his neck before glancing in his rearview mirror. "Before we, um…you know. Get home. I just wanted to…I'm really sorry, again, about last night. I…that shouldn't have happened like that."

"Please stop apologizing," I say, reclaiming his hand in the space between us. "I meant what I said this morning; I wanted that, too."

"I know," he says, then shakes his head slightly. "I just…" He shakes his head again.

"Edward, please stop, otherwise you're going to give me a complex about it."

"Okay, no, I don't want that at all," he says quickly. "I just…I didn't know if you were…at all worried. About any potential…consequences. I mean, I have pretty good, uh, control over myself. But I didn't want you to be worried and feel like you couldn't tell me if you were."

"I'm not," I reply instantly, honestly. "I know my body, and I know my cycles, and while I was certainly caught up in the moment, I like to think that if I thought even for a second that there was a possibility of a...consequence…I would have…well, stopped."

He blows out a breath. "Okay," he says softly, and it occurs to me that even though I'm not worried, he might be.

"Edward?"

"Yeah."

"Are you worried?"

He glances over at me before returning his gaze to the road and shrugging. "No. I mean, like I said, I feel like I have a pretty good grasp of things on my end, and I trust you when you say you know your stuff. I just wanted to…check."

"Okay." I squeeze his hand. "Because if you're worried and you want me to take a precautionary measure, I'd be more than willing to do that."

He looks at me again and gives me a soft smile. "No, I don't need you to do that. Not unless it's something you feel like you need to do. But no, you don't need to do it on my account."

"Okay then." I feel a small knot I didn't even realize I was feeling loosen in my chest. Talking to Emmett earlier in the evening had made me wonder, if only for a brief, fleeing moment, what would happen if the laws of biology and statistics conspired to work against us. I know I'm not ovulating, I know he pulled out of me in plenty of time, I know that the odds of me getting pregnant are about as likely as me writing the next Great American Novel, and yet the simple fact of having this conversation with Edward brings comfort in the knowledge that we're on the same page.

"Thanks, though," he says after a moment. "For offering to do that. For…acting like it was a decision we could make together."

I run my thumb over his knuckles. "You're welcome. Thanks for not freaking out about participating in the decision."

He pulls into the driveway and shifts the car to Park before killing the engine. "I know it's generally not advisable to harp on past relationships when you're starting a new one, but can I just say something?"

"Of course."

"I like that I feel like we can talk about stuff. I mean everything, but this stuff in particular. With Emily, it was always…it was like something we could never really outright discuss, and sometimes I would get frustrated because I'd feel like she wasn't being honest with me, or she wasn't telling me what she needed, and sometimes I felt like I couldn't be honest with her about what I needed because I worried that what I needed was in opposition to what _she_ needed." He shakes his head in self-reproach. "I'm rambling. I just want you to know…I'm really glad that we can talk. About stuff. It's…really nice." He's blushing, and I think I love him.

"I think it's really nice, too," I tell him, and he gives me a relieved smile.

"Okay," he says, unfastening his seat belt. "Come in. I'll change and get the, uh…things." The familiar fire darkens his face, and I can't resist.

"Condoms?" I tease, and he nods. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"How is it that you can stand in front of a class of twenty people and talk about condoms and anatomy and actually do a condom demonstration and not blush, but sitting here in the dark with me, the mere mention of the word is enough to make you turn red?"

He fiddles with the keys he has just pulled from the ignition. "Because when I'm talking about them in class, I'm not picturing in rather vivid detail what I'm going to be doing with them."

"Oh." I feel a bloom of my own darken my face as I remember what watching him roll the condom down the mock penis had done to me. "Okay, yeah. That makes sense."

He seems to be delighting in my discomfort. "Come in," he says again. "I won't be long."

_I'm counting on the opposite to be true_, I think, and slip from the car to follow him up his porch steps and through the front door. We kick off our shoes, and he turns on a small lamp before disappearing down the hallway with an invitation to make myself comfortable. I once again wander around his living room, cataloguing details until I find myself standing in front of his sofa, gazing at the photo of Wrigley Field above his couch. It occurs to me, as I take in the green diamond surrounded by urban landscape, that it's past midnight and I'm in Edward's house. Edward's house, where we have condoms and absolutely no need to get back in his car and drive to my house. I stand staring at the framed photo for another few moments, my indistinct reflection staring back at me from the glass, and I glance back toward the front door, inside which my new heels sit beside his discarded dress shoes. With sudden, vivid clarity, I remember what I felt like seeing him in my bed, and his words from my first visit to his house play over in my mind. _I know I said this place was starting to feel like home…it seems even more like that with you standing in my kitchen._

I take a fortifying breath and pad down the hallway in my bare feet, drawing to a halt where his open bedroom door spills a parallelogram of light onto the hall carpet.

"Hi," I say, and he whirls to spot me standing in the doorway. He's holding his tie in one hand and a tie rack hanger in the other. The collar of his dress shirt is unbuttoned, his suit jacket is draped on the bed, and his socked feet peek out from beneath the hems of his slacks.

"Hi," he replies. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I assure him, stepping into his room, and before I can check myself, glancing around. His comforter is a masculine navy blue and gray stripe, and a dark wood nightstand is on the far side of it with a small reading lamp and an alarm clock. There's a matching dresser with a small flat-screen television on the opposite wall and an accent chair in the far corner with his gray hooded sweatshirt draped over the back. "This is nice."

"Thanks."

I straighten my shoulders as I step toward him; he's paused in his movements, tie dangling from his fingertips as his green eyes track my movements. When he doesn't unfreeze, I take the tie from him and loop it over an open hook before returning the hanger to the rail in his closet and turning to face him. "It just occurred to me…we don't have to go back to my house."

"We don't?"

I shake my head as I toy with one of the buttons on his shirt. "No. Unless you'd prefer it." He mirrors my head-shake, but offers no verbal response. "I can…stay here, instead. If you're willing to spot me a t-shirt to sleep in. Or not sleep in." I arch an eyebrow in suggestion. "In the interest of full disclosure, though, I should tell you that I did have something lacy and silky picked out for tonight."

He swallows. "Bella, I like lacy and silky as much as the next guy, but even before I've seen it, I can't imagine there's anything sexier than you wearing one of my t-shirts."

_Marry me_, I think but mercifully don't say, and I rise to my toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. He tilts his head slightly to capture my lips, and I feel his hands slide around my hips and to the small of my back, pressing me into him so tightly that the space between us during our dance is a momentarily forgotten memory. Before I can deepen the kiss, however, he pulls back again. "Are you sure? I know girls like to have their…stuff."

I grin up at him, trailing my hands down his torso and reaching between us; he sucks in a breath as my hands come to rest on the bottom button of his shirt, and I arch a teasingly knowing brow at his reaction. He blushes. "I'd rather just have you," I say, slipping the bottom button free and moving up to the next one. "Here." Another button free. "Now."

He swallows and nods as I continue up the line of buttons; when the top one is undone and his once-crisp dress shirt is hanging open, I run my palms up the warm skin covering his well-defined abdominal muscles.

We've done pretty much everything we can do together, and yet something about this night feels momentous, like a mile marker we've been waiting to pass. I'm a jumbled muddle of familiar sensation – desire, arousal, anxiety, need – and yet there's something else something soft and affectionate that has me anticipating wallowing beneath bed sheets in the early morning sunlight tomorrow nearly as much as I'm looking forward to writhing beneath them with him tonight.

He dips his head to capture my mouth, and as our kisses escalate, his hands run up and down my spine and press me into his body so tightly that the space between us during our dance is a forgotten memory. "Okay," he mumbles against my lips as his fingers find the line of tiny buttons trailing down to the top of my ass. "This dress is beautiful, but how the heck do I get you out of it?"

"Fake buttons," I murmur in reply. "It zips."

"Thank God," he replies, and a moment later I feel the bodice of the dress loosen and his hands flatten against the bare skin just above the waistband of my panties. He kisses me once more, soft and slow, before releasing my lips to gaze down at me. As his hands travel up to gently drag the dress from my shoulders and down my body, it's as if I'm hypersensitive to every sensation: the soft, coarse carpet beneath my bare feet, the line of heat his fingers leave in their wake, the smell wafting off his skin, the soft rasp of silk as my dress pools at my feet. Edward's eyes don't leave mine, and when he murmurs "so beautiful" nearly too softly for me to hear it, his focus is on my face and not my lingerie-clad body.

"Ditto," I whisper, lifting a hand to the base of his neck and pulling his mouth to mine; there's no hesitation as he kisses me deeply, backing us up until I feel the edge of his bed at the backs of my knees. I lean back as if to sit, but his hands tighten around my waist.

"Wait," he breathes into my mouth, and warm palms skirt up my spine to find the clasp of my bra. He frees it and drags it from my arms, dropping it to the floor before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of my underwear. He pauses only briefly before sliding them down my thighs until they free-fall to the carpet and reaching around me to drag the comforter to the floor. "Okay," he says in the same, soft voice, and I sit down before scooting backward toward the pillows. He watches me go, standing at the foot of his bed still nearly dressed, his shirt hanging open and his lips kiss-swollen.

"Jesus, Bella," he says as I settle against his pillows.

"What?"

"You look beautiful in my bed." He makes no move to join me, so I hold out a hand. As if I've shaken him from his reverie, he crawls up the bed until he's hovering above me, his hands propping himself up and the rough linen of his trousers scraping the outsides of my bare thighs. He leans in to kiss me once, gently, and the crisp cotton of his shirt lapels brushes against my already-peaked nipples. When I whimper into the kiss, he deepens it, his tongue sliding against mine, his teeth pulling gently at my lower lip. I slide my hands up his straining arms to his shoulders and push his dress shirt off; his lips release mine and he rises to his knees, pulling the garment the rest of the way off and dropping it over the side of the bed. I gaze up at him looming above me, and in this moment I feel more sexually powerful than I ever have – a sensation seemingly at odds with the inequality of my nakedness to his clothes, the fact that I'm lying supine beneath his powerful knees. And yet, despite his positioning, there's still a question in his eyes, a hesitation in the way he gazes down at me.

Still reclined against his pillows, I bite my bottom lip in provocation as I reach up and undo his belt buckle. His eyes dart between my face and my hands, and when I free the button of his slacks and slide the zipper down, the muscles in his lower abdomen clench. Pushing the pants from his hips so that they pool at his knees, I brush the back of my knuckles over the rather obvious bulge at the front of his boxers, and Edward sucks in an audible breath. Completely uninterested in teasing either one of us, I gently pull the elastic waistband away from his skin and drag it down just enough to free his erection and wrap my hand around it.

"Bella," he gasps, thrusting reflexively into my loose grip. I recall his own hand wrapped around mine beneath a blanket of stars and add the twist he favors, and he sucks in another breath before grabbing my wrist in his hand and falling forward again, pinning my hand to the mattress. I drag my free hand across his hip, heading once again for his hard-on, but he finds that wrist too and brings it up to pin it as well. I'm completely trapped, staring up at him, and yet I've never felt so commanding. "I'll come," he murmurs by way of explanation, and the cheekbones that were already pink-tinged with arousal darken. "If you keep touching me like that, I'll come." He leans in to kiss me, but at the last minute, he alters his course and presses soft lips to my temple, my jaw, my neck before sliding down slightly and capturing my nipple in his mouth. He frees one wrist to ghost fingertips down my side to my hip; he finds my softest skin with gentle fingertips, rubbing slow circles as his tongue mimics the pattern around one nipple and then the other. I'm a match to his flame, the smoldering embers of arousal igniting and making me desperate. Desperate for him to fill me, to come with me – desperate to watch him above me, to hear him, see him, feel him.

Pleasure courses hot through me as he continues his gentle touches, and I reach down with my now-free hand to still his movements. "I'll come," I mimic, and his eyes flash as he peers up at me from where he's still teasing my breast with his tongue.

"Good," he mumbles against my flesh, trying to free his hand from my grip.

"I want it with you," I whisper into the semi-darkness, and I feel his bare erection press against my inner thigh. He releases my nipple from his mouth and slides off the side of the bed to free himself from his slacks and boxer shorts; when he half-turns to get a condom from the bedside table, I realize that despite our previous escapades, this is the first time I'm seeing his bare ass. I'm going to have to tell Jasper that the abs have officially been demoted to my second-favorite part of this particular soccer player's body.

Then, he turns back to face me. _Third-favorite_, I silently correct as I watch him tear the wrapper from the rubber and drop the foil to the nightstand as he rolls it over his length. _Well done, Mr. Cullen_, I think, a fleeting memory of fake dicks and condom demos floating through my brain as he sheaths himself.

This time I spread my legs so that his thighs are between them, and I feel the base of him pressed against the heart of me. I trace a hand along his jaw and bury it in the hair at the nape of his neck as I pull his mouth to mine; he finds my other hand with his and interlaces our fingers, bringing my hand once again to the mattress beside my head. As I kiss him, I feel his other hand slide between us to line himself up; when I feel him poised at my entrance, he pulls back to peer down at me. "Okay?" he breathes, and despite my frequent assurances that he never has to ask, I smile gently up at him.

"Okay," I confirm, and he interlocks our other hands and presses them to the bed as he pushes inside me. I let my eyes fall closed as each delicious inch sinks into me, and when I feel our hips pressed together, I open them to see him staring at me intently. He slides out torturously slowly, watching my face before pushing back in.

"Edward," I breathe, lifting my hips to meet his thrust, and he grunts softly as he looks down the landscape of our bodies to where I'm arching into him. When heated green eyes find mine again, they dart to our hands before a small crease appears between his brows.

"Is that okay?" he asks, breathless, hips still moving.

"What?" I gasp, my chest heaving.

His eyes dart away from my face as he glances once more at my restrained hands. "Holding you down," he breathes. "Is it okay for me to hold you down?" He looks uncertain even as he drives in and out of me.

"God, yes," I breathe, bucking up into him to punctuate my point, and he moans as he picks up the pace.

I look down the expanse of my body to where he's sliding roughly in and out, taking me, his muscled thighs flexing with each thrust. My wild hips have a mind of their own, meeting each of his plunges, and when I look back up into his beautiful face, he's all flushed skin and heated eyes. His fingers tighten between mine, his palms pressing mine deeper into the sheets as he puts more weight on his hands.

"Oh, God," he gasps, his thrusts sharp enough that the meeting of our skin is audible in the moonlit bedroom.

"Yes," I pant in response, my breasts moving with my body, my flesh accepting and freeing him over and over again, each of his movements driving me higher and higher.

"Bella, I'm—" he starts, but he angles his next thrust slightly and I beat him to the punch.

"Coming," I gasp, my hips lurching upward as my entire body tenses, my orgasm crashing over me as my walls, thighs, fingers tighten around him, trying to draw him closer, deeper.

"Oh," he moans, stilling and matching my tautness as he comes, and I wrap my jellied legs around his waist and force my body to clench around him as he finds his own pleasure inside me.

After a final shudder, he collapses atop me, his clammy chest pressed to mine, wild heartbeats drumming against each other as we pant into each other's necks. "Fuck," I hear him gasp into my skin, and I chuckle as I squeeze his hands again.

"Check," I whisper back, and his answering laugh rumbles against my chest.

We stay pressed together like that, skin cooling by degrees, until the condom necessitates that we disconnect. When he returns from the bathroom, he slides into bed beside me looking mildly uncertain. I'm still lying on my back, but before I can ask what the problem is, he rolls back on top of me, kissing me gently and cupping my shoulders in his warm palms. We share loose-lipped, lazy post-coital kisses as our breathing gradually returns to normal, and I silently delight in every inch of his sated skin pressed to mine. There's something softly intimate about still wanting to be pressed together from head to toe even after the drive to climax is gone.

My nails skirt gently along the line of his spine, and he groans appreciatively as he goes boneless on top of me and buries his face in the pillow beside my head. I can't stop myself from touching him, and the way his hands gently flex around the curves of my shoulders make me think he understands the feeling. The flesh between my legs is slightly tender, and that awareness makes me smirk at the ceiling; I can't remember the last time missionary-position sex left me feeling that way.

As soon as the thought enters my brain, a question follows it.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you…" I search for a modicum of tact, and at my hesitation, he pulls back to meet my eye. "What…positions have you done before?"

The adorable man blushes. "I, uh…well, just one. You know." He glances down our bodies, and I infer with little difficulty that "you know" means "missionary."

"Do you like it?"

He gives me a "duh" look I've never seen on his face before. "Um. Yeah?"

I laugh as I smooth his hair back off his forehead. "Well, I mean, obviously."

He frowns slightly. "Do you…prefer others?"

"No, no, no. Stop." I run my hands through his hair, scratching my nails against his scalp. "Not at _all_ why I said it. I just wanted to tell you…we can do whatever you want. I'm open to anything you want to try."

Mirth-filled green eyes meet mine. "Does that mean you're changing your mind about the anal thing?"

"What?" I very nearly yelp, and he laughs into the skin of my neck.

"Kidding," comes his muffled voice. "I'm just kidding." I feel his lips press against the hollow of my throat, and I plant my hands on his shoulders and forcibly push him off me. He rolls onto his back, a small crease of concern appearing between his brows for the split second between when I push him off and when I climb on top of him.

"You're going to pay for that," I murmur as I lean forward, pressing my bare breasts to his warm chest and my mouth to his throat.

"Oh?" he replies, his attempt at nonchalance belied by the croak in his voice. I feel his hands bracket my hips and I rock subtly against him, drawing a soft moan from his throat and a not-entirely-soft twitch from another part of him entirely. I pull back and still my hips as I stare down at him; he's looking up at me in boyish wonder.

_Oh, Edward,_ I want to say as I gaze back down into his lovely face. _You ain't seen nothin' yet._

* * *

Something's buzzing, and it's not the blood in my veins, despite the fact that after we collapsed, exhausted, sometime after two in the morning, Edward woke me once more just before dawn with gentle hands on my breasts and a less-than-gentle mouth on my neck.

"Make it stop," the daybreak Casanova murmurs into my tangle of hair, and the sensation of his breath at the top of my spine sends me momentarily back to that most recent interlude.

"_Really?" he pants into my hair, sliding his erection between my closed thighs, the tip of him dragging against my wet flesh, his voice thick with arousal and incredulity. "Like this?"_

"_Like this," I whisper into the darkness, pressing my hips back into his._

I crack one eye to glance toward the nightstand. It occurs to me, probably belatedly, that I'm apparently on the side of the bed he usually sleeps on, and his failure to mention it the night before makes something warm bloom in my chest.

"I, um, think it's yours," I say when I note that his screen is the one that's illuminating.

"What time is it?" he asks, but makes no move to answer the call.

"Nine thirty," I say, and he mumbles something unintelligible as I extricate myself from his arms and snag his phone off the nightstand. I pass it over my shoulder without looking at the screen, and he mumbles something else as he flips it open.

"Hello?" His voice is dopey, sleep-roughened, and it makes me want to bat it out of his hand and roll his body on top of mine. If I had the energy, I'd seriously consider it. "Yeah," he says into the phone as he rolls onto his back, rubbing his free hand over his face. As I watch his profile, I notice the stubble that peppers his jawline and the desire to immediately recommence our cardio workout increases.

"Now?" he asks, and I'm sorely tempted to answer him.

_Yes, now._

He sighs in response to whomever has invaded our morning-after bubble. "How many?"

_For you? Three. For me? At least five. A personal best, as a matter of fact._

"Okay. I just got up."

_I can help you with that._

"Give me ten minutes, okay?"

_I guarantee you it won't take me nearly that long._

He flips the phone shut, and I force my endorphin-addled brain to stop with the horny inner monologue. "Everything okay?"

He groans again and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. "The guys want to play pick-up and run a couple of drills, but I have the ball bag in the back of my car," comes his muffled voice. After a beat, he rolls back to his side and gazes at me. "I think this might be the first time that I'm actually disappointed by their commitment to the sport."

I laugh. "Well, I would sympathize, but it would be a lie to imply that I would mind getting a call from a student on a Saturday morning asking me for extra reading."

He sighs. "Leaving this bed to go play coach was definitely _not_ on my agenda for this morning," he says, and the horny part of my brain reengages in full force.

"Oh? What _was_ on your agenda for this morning?"

He scoots his body closer to me and presses a feather-light kiss to my bare shoulder. "The same thing that was on it last night, though with a few slight variations." Before I can respond, he rolls away and slips out of bed.

"You have boxers on!" I exclaim as he rises, my tone accusatory.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. I put them on when I got up to use the bathroom." He glances at me over his shoulder, and I secure the top sheet under my arms, which I cross over my chest. "Sorry," he says, though he doesn't look it. "When I sleep naked, sometimes, uh…_things_…get squished."

My false indignation is shoved aside by the giggle that bubbles up in my throat, and he grins in return. Suddenly, staring at Edward standing in his boxers, hair a chaotic mess, morning sunlight making his skin glow gold, eyes and smile bright, I realize how insignificant my words to him last night were. _I like you a lot, too._

_Understate: transitive verb; to represent as less than is the case._

Less. So much less.

"Bella?" When I refocus, Edward is gazing at me intently, and I realize I've missed something.

"What?"

"I asked if you'd like that t-shirt now."

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks."

He turns and bends to open one of the lower drawers in his dresser, and I experience a not-so-fleeting desire to drag him back into bed and push his boxers off his hips and show him how I feel even if I'm too much of a coward to say the words. He straightens and turns, holding up a t-shirt by the shoulders. "This one's actually sort of small, so it will probably fit you better than any of the others." He tosses it to me and I catch it, holding it up as he had and reading the front of it.

"'Soccer players do it for ninety minutes in eleven positions,'" I read, then lower the shirt to arch a brow in his direction. "Ninety minutes?" He matches my brow-arch and I shake my head. _Understatement._ "I'd say we proved that one patently false. The eleven positions, however…" I pull the shirt on over my head and slip my arms through the sleeves before pulling my hair out from the neckline. "I'm intrigued." I tug the hem of the shirt down to where the sheet is now pooled in my lap. "Well, that's the top half covered. Can I borrow some shorts or something?" The next article to come flying in my direction is a pair of shorts with three white stripes down the legs. "Thanks." Before I can wriggle into them beneath the shield of the sheet, he comes back to the bed, planting one knee on the edge of it and bending forward to press a kiss to my hairline.

"Stay," he murmurs. "I'll only be fifteen minutes. I'll come back and take you to your house to get some real clothes, and then I'll buy you breakfast."

"French toast?" I ask, and he grins.

"Whatever your little heart desires."

I don't tell him the truth that rises unchecked in my throat: that what my little heart desires is more of what it had last night, and I'm not talking about the mind-boggling sex. Well, not _just_ talking about it, anyway. The feel of his bare feet intertwined with mine, his arm banded around my waist in sleep, the way that arm would tighten any time I moved, the soft puffs of his breath against the back of my neck…all of those little things did something to my heart that have made it desire so much more than just the fun stuff. Do I want Mr. Sex-on-Legs? Absolutely. But I want Edward, too.

Once he's thrown on a t-shirt and shorts and disappeared from the room, I hear the sounds of tooth-brushing and face-washing from the bathroom before he calls out another goodbye and the front door slams shut behind him. Sliding into his enormous athletic shorts, I slip from the bed and make my way down his hallway, drawing to a pause outside the only door between his bedroom and the living room. The door is open, so when I step inside I don't feel like I'm snooping. It appears to be an office of sorts, with three floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined up side by side against the back wall and a matching desk beneath the window. There's a closed laptop on it and a printer on a small accent table to one side; in the opposite corner there's a brown leather armchair.

I step up to the first of three tall bookcases and begin perusing his shelves. He might be a jock, but he's certainly a well-read one; the shelves hold various books on coaching youth soccer, books on drills, books on fitness programs, books on coaching and motivation. There are biographies and autobiographies of various athletes: David Beckham. Lance Armstrong. Michael Jordan. Some kind of anthology on the Chicago Bears. A pictorial history of Wrigley Field. A few years' worth of _The Best American Sports Writing._ The entire first bookcase is crammed with jock-books. The second is a slight deviation: various tomes on health and nutrition, nutrition for athletes, injury prevention and recovery. Anatomy texts that I suspect were a part of his college curriculum. A few books that appear to highlight the links between physical fitness and mental health and well-being. The third bookcase is where I find what I was looking for: Edward's fiction shelves. And while his assertion that his favorite book was _On the Road_, his shelves are anything but typical. He has a number of classics that regularly appear on my syllabi, though none of the oft-despised Dickens:

_The Great Gatsby._

_To Kill a Mockingbird._

_Huckleberry Finn._

_The Sun Also Rises._

From the presence of Jonathan Tropper, David Sedaris, and Chuck Palahniuk, I deduce that he likes dry humor and a sarcastic wit.

From the presence of Mitch Albom, the Dalai Lama, and Randy Pausch, I can see that he likes things that make him think about the bigger picture.

Then, there are the ones that I find surprising, that I can't quite figure out. A number of them seem to feature young protagonists, or at least stories that involve teenage characters, and it makes me think that teachers should have required reading lists, too. _The Perks of Being a Wallflower. _The entire _Harry Potter_ series. _ Nineteen Minutes._ Something tells me that Edward's ability to relate to his students is something he's carefully cultivated, and the now-familiar respect I have for him wells up in my chest. I pull out the last one – just about the only one on this eclectic shelf that I haven't read – and tuck it under my arm. If I've found someone who's willing to trade books with me, I'm pretty sure I might drop to one knee and propose marriage. Or drop to both knees and propose something else entirely.

I glance around the small space again, bolstered by this unfettered glimpses into Edward's persona. The wooden desk in the corner is organized, a small stack of his favored manila folders sitting on the edge of it and a pair of framed photographs atop the small organizing hutch at the back. As I step closer, I realize that one of them is of Edward with the same man whose photo is on his fridge: his brother, Riley, arm slung around Edward's shoulders. They're both gangly teenagers, limbs too long for their bodies, and I smile at awkward, adolescent Edward for a moment before moving on. The second photo must be his parents, judging from the eyes Edward appears to have inherited from his mother and the nose and jaw line that favor his father's. I straighten and move to leave, but the hem of Edward's too-big t-shirt catches the corner of one of the folders in the stack, and I just manage to catch them before they all go spilling to the floor. As I attempt to straighten them, the handwritten words on the folders' tabs catch my eye.

_Seattle._

_Tacoma._

_Spokane._

_Kent._

_Lake Washington._

_Northshore._

I frown, wondering why Edward would have folders for all of these regions when it hits me: these are some of the larger school districts in the state. My curiosity raging, I lift the cover of the top folder and peek inside; when I see the top sheet of paper, my stomach twists.

_Seattle Public Schools Application for Employment._ A completed application for employment with all of Edward's information. I let the folder fall closed and straighten the stack once more, unnecessarily. _Seattle?_ I step away from the desk, more carefully this time, and as I reach the threshold of the door, I hear the front door open and close. When I step out of the hallway and into the living room, Edward is standing on the mat inside his door. "Hey," he says, easy grin in place. "Sorry. I can't say no when they want to play pick-up." His eyes flick to the forgotten book tucked beneath my arm; when I realize what he's noticing, I hold it up. "Sorry. I was, uh, looking at your books."

"Uh-oh," he says, but his eyes are alight with humor. "Are you psychoanalyzing me based on what I have on my shelves? I swear, I had the Lance Armstrong book way before I knew he was juicing. And the _Harry Potter_…" He trails off and shrugs. "Yeah, no valid excuse there. I'm just a dork."

I shake my head and force a smile. "No, I was just curious." I hold up the book. "I haven't read this one."

He nods. "It's really good," he says. "But it's…tough. School violence, the shooter's a victim of bullying you actually sympathize with, the parents are blindsided…it's really good, but it's tough. Maybe especially for teachers."

"Do you mind if I borrow it?"

"Bella, you're welcome to anything in my house." His eyes sweep over me once more. "And I was right last night: seeing you in my clothes might be one of the sexiest things ever." He gives a sudden, sheepish smile, as if embarrassed by his candor. Almost immediately, though, his smile dims. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," I say instantly. "Great." I glance down at the book and take the lie it offers. "I was just thinking about James."

"Oh." He frowns. "Yeah."

I force myself to brighten as I look back up at him. "So…breakfast?"

He nods, smile returning. "Breakfast."

By the time I'm in my own clothes and Cora has guessed our orders for us and disappeared into the kitchen after pouring us coffee, the truth is clamoring to escape me and I can't hold it off any longer. "I have a confession to make," I say, hugging my mug between my palms.

"Okay," he says easily, tapping his fingertips against the side of his own cup.

"When I was in your, um. Office? Library?" I frown.

He shrugs. "Spare room?"

"Okay. Well anyway. I saw the photos on your desk."

He frowns, as if confused that my seeing his family photos might lead to something sinister. "Okay," he says again, only slightly more hesitant.

"When I walked by the desk, my t-shirt caught on a stack of folders and almost knocked them off; I caught them, but I noticed that they were all for, um…school districts."

He nods. "Job applications." He raises his eyebrows in expectation, and I'm momentarily thrown by his utter lack of discomfort.

"Right," I say, suddenly at sea. _Where do I go from here?_

"Bella?"

"Sorry," I say, shaking my head and gazing down into my coffee. "I was just…curious." I trace the handle of my mug with my thumb. "I didn't realize you were…moving."

"Oh," he says softly, and suddenly his hand is covering mine on the Formica tabletop. "Hey." I look up, feeling stupid for how quickly I got attached, for how poorly concealed my distress is, for even bringing it up in the first place. "Bella, I filled out those applications months ago. Pretty much when I first got here." His thumb is running along my knuckles, and I break the intensity of his gaze to watch it. "I really didn't think Forks was the right fit for me. I'd never lived in such a small town, never been in such a small school, and I didn't really expect to like it." I nod, still watching his hand move against mine. I can't argue with his logic: when I first came back to teach in Forks, I didn't expect to like it, either.

"That's understandable," I say, even though sadness is spreading like an oil spill through my chest, dark and penetrating.

"Bella." He squeezes my hand once, urging me to look up at him, and when I do, his face is a beautiful mix of concern and affection. "As it turns out, I like teaching in Forks. Much more than I thought I would. I like that one of my students will ask me for condoms instead of doing something impulsive – that would never happen in a bigger school. I like that the whole town cares about how the soccer team does. I even like it when people say hi to me in the grocery store, even if it did take a while to get used to." He gives me a small, private smile. "I like that the school is so small that there's only one health teacher, and that you had to sit in on the Sex Ed lectures with me." I share his smile. "And I've said it already, but I'll say it a lot more: I really, _really_ like you. A lot. And I haven't filled out a single application or looked at a single job vacancy listing since _The Philadelphia Story_."

The spike of hope that spears my chest is ill-advised, but I'm powerless to fight it. "Really?"

His eyes are soft. "Really."

I shake my head. "I don't mean to be…" I trail off, waving a hand in the space between us. I don't know what descriptor I'm seeking. _Clingy. Overly attached. Such a girl._

"I like it," he says simply. "If you were thinking about moving away, I'd be…" He pauses, waving a hand between us in an alarmingly spot-on imitation of me, before grinning. We smile stupidly at each other for a beat before his smile dims slightly. "But I want to be clear...I'm not putting pressure on you. Or on us. I like my job independent of what's going on with us. I really do. I like knowing the kids, and knowing the teachers, and knowing the parents of the kids. It's…nice. I didn't really think it would be; I thought it would be too much, too personal, but I like it. So it's not…all on you, I guess." He winces slightly. "I don't know if that came out right."

"It did," I assure him. "It came out perfectly."

He nods, but concern is still evident in his features. "I meant what I said last night," he says softly. "I really like you. I really like…_this_. I think it could be going somewhere really, really great."

"Me too," I say, relief all but eclipsing the dread that had been unfolding in my chest. "I think so, too. And I meant what _I _said last night." Off his frown, I offer a saucy smirk. "I like it when you hold me down."

And, of course, he blushes.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **Being bent over by boys who are considerably taller than you can be tricky.

**Acknowledgement:** HollettLA betas on vacation. For this and so many other reasons, I'm running out of ways to say how fabulous she is. (xo)

* * *

**Chapter 14**

In the weeks that follow, lingering frosty days melt once and for all into spring, yellow-green life appearing on branches and bulbs peeking tentatively up from below ground as the sun makes more frequent appearances. In the first week of May, Edward gets a mild sunburn, and the ever-present pink that graces his cheeks for nearly a week thereafter does funny things to my insides. And my libido.

We have more overnights, and I learn more and more about the man who was once little more than "the fuckhot PE teacher." He likes to cuddle. He likes his shower just this side of too hot. He likes me on top.

I learn other, less intimate things: that he misses his parents, despite his claims that they're not particularly close. That he's allergic to kiwi. That his brother is, in fact, single, but that he's more Jasper's type than Angela's. I file all of these details away, amassing a catalog of the little and not-so-little elements of his personality and his life, and I'm hard-pressed to find anything I don't like. Each thing I learn only serves to make me like him more, even if his propensity to turn pink remains one of my favorites.

When I dart from beneath the overhang of the garage in which my junker of a truck is awaiting its service and slide into the passenger seat of his car at end of that first week in May, he's grinning at me from behind the wheel, the sleeves of his sky blue dress shirt already rolled up to just beneath his elbows. His slacks are navy, and not for the first time I wish that I were still spending a couple of hours a week in a classroom with him. The car smells like a newly familiar mix of toothpaste and shampoo and men's deodorant, and something about knowing what this man smells like first thing in the morning is a new level of intimacy I've never really known.

"Thanks for doing this," I say, situating my school bag between my feet.

"Are you kidding? Getting to see you first thing in the morning on a weekday? Bonus."

My lips twitch and his eyes fall to them immediately; I give him a knowing smile. "Hi," I say softly, leaning over the center console, and he grins back.

"Hi," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to my closed mouth.

It isn't until I pull back that I notice the small cluster of seemingly mismatched flowers that sit in a thin vase in the cup holder. Two of the blooms catch my eye immediately: a sprig of lilacs and a small sunflower. The third, however, gives me pause, and I reach out a fingertip to gently touch one of its pink-white petals.

"It's a stargazer lily," he says, and at his words, my mind briefly flits to twinkling stars and crashing ocean waves before coming back to the present moment.

"Thank you," I say, still fingering the silk-soft bloom. "What's the occasion?"

He shrugs. "Does there have to be one?"

"No," I admit with a smile, fastening my seat belt. "They're beautiful."

"Fitting, then," he says, smiling at me before putting the car in gear.

"Sorry about last night," I say. "Are the guys disappointed?" Despite the undeniable potential of his talented but young soccer team, the Forks Spartans lost in the opening round of the regional tournament, thanks in no small part to the fact that their first-round game was against the defending state champions.

"Yeah," he says as he pulls back onto the main road that leads to the school. "But I reminded them how young we are, and how much talent we have coming back next year."

As ever, the subtle reassurance that he'll be here next year makes my stomach flip. The brief moments I spent imagining him taking his flushed cheeks and soft smiles and leaving me behind were surprisingly painful.

"The margarita troupe meeting tonight?" he asks, merging into traffic.

"Yep. You in?"

"Definitely. Want me to take you to pick up your truck after school, and we can drop it off at your house and take mine to dinner?"

I smile. "Thanks, but I promised Jess I'd go with her to Port Angeles for pedicures."

He arches a teasing eyebrow at the road. "Wow. The first week above fifty degrees and you're prepping for flip-flops. You girls don't waste time, do you?"

I laugh. "Jess has very high fashion standards," I say, then add the truth. "And she enjoys an hour of gossip-filled pampering. I'm sure your ears will be burning."

Making my words as literal as they can be, the tips of his ears turn pink.

When we park in the school lot, it doesn't occur to me until I'm sliding out of the passenger seat and pulling my bag onto my shoulder, Edward appearing to close my door for me as other teachers and students pull into parking spaces nearby and exit their cars, what this looks like. Edward glances around us, undoubtedly arriving at a similar realization before he gives me a reassuring smile and places a steadying hand at the small of my back. We walk into the building together, both aware of the curious eyes watching us as we go. A kiss on the soccer field on a Friday night is one thing; showing up to work together on a Friday morning is something else entirely, and we've both just rather publicly, albeit inadvertently, given a rather telling glimpse into what this really is.

We step inside the building, and my racing mind is immediately quieted by the feel of Edward's lips at my hairline. "Have a good day," he says softly, and grins knowingly down at me before adding, "dear."

"You too," I say, smirking back up at him, "hon."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but it snaps shut and his cheeks are faintly pink as he steps back. "See you later."

"Yeah," I say in reply, reverting back to feeling seventeen and newly in love instead of old and married. "See you."

He heads down the hall in the direction of the gym, and like any seventeen-year-old girl would, I watch him as he goes.

"If I were twenty years younger," I hear from somewhere to my left, and when I seek out the source of the voice, I spot Shelly Cope standing with her bulging canvas tote bag hanging from her shoulder and her travel mug clutched in her free hand. She gives me a knowingly conspiratorial smile, and I can't hold back my answering one. The old biddy is nearly as shameless as Jess; in fact, I can absolutely see Jessica filling Mrs. Cope's role as the brazen sexagenarian flirt-slash-busybody of the Forks High School hallways in about thirty years' time. "But of course," she adds, hitching an eyebrow as the corners of her fuchsia-painted lips twitch. "I can see that I'm not quite his type." I fall into step beside her as we make our way through the steadily filling hallway, unsure as to what constitutes an appropriate response, and she chuckles. "He seems like a very nice young man, dear."

"He is," I say, grateful for the relatively innocuous turn in conversation.

She draws to a halt outside the main office and winks as she reaches for the door handle. "Have a nice day, Ms. Swan."

"Thanks, Mrs. Cope. You, too."

I finish the journey to my classroom, and once I've placed Edward's flowers on a discreet corner windowsill and retrieved the cardboard box holding copies of the next novel on our syllabus from the back of the room and lugged it to the front, the warning bell rings and my first period English students begin filing into the room.

"This book sucked," Emmett says in greeting as he drops the well-thumbed paperback and his binder to the surface of his desk and collapses into his chair.

"Pick an adjective, Emmett," I remind him, and he rolls his eyes.

"This book was…" He squints at the blank chalkboard behind me. "Confusing," he finishes, and there are murmurs of assent from the few students who are already in their seats.

"What was confusing about it?" I ask as more students file in and find their desks.

"The names," Emmett groans, flipping idly through the epic, which looks amusingly small in his large hands. "Like, I couldn't keep the characters straight. Antinoos? Alcinoos? Is this dude _trying_ to confuse us?"

I laugh. "No," I assure him, even though I remember having similar gripes about Greek mythology when I was in school.

"Arete? Argos?" He drops the book back atop his binder in disgusted defeat. "There are too many A names."

"Well, that one's slightly easier: Arete was Alcinoos' wife, and Argos was a dog."

Emmett stares at me, incredulous, before slumping back into his seat and glaring at the book in front of him. "That book sucked," he says again.

"It totally did," Alice agrees as she lowers herself to the desk in front of him. "It was so _confusing. _I could not keep everyone straight."

"That's what _I_ said," Emmett replies as the final students settle into their desks.

"Okay," I say to the class at large. "I have two votes for 'confusing.' What did everyone else think of _The Odyssey_?"

"Confusing is good," Rosalie offers. "Some of the vocabulary lost me."

I nod. "That's okay. Did you make a list?"

Rose nods, and a few of the other kids do the same. "Great. Okay, so beyond the vocabulary and the names?"

"I sort of liked it," James says, the voluntary participation rather out of character, and I nod in encouragement.

"Why?"

He's chewing on his lip as he flips through the book, and I can see a few pieces of torn notebook paper serving as placeholders between the pages. "I don't know," he says, but continues thumbing pages. "I liked the obstacles. Like, how he overcomes them and stuff." He peeks up at me, silently pleading to be released from the hook, and I nod.

"Great," I say, and his relief is evident. "That's the whole point, after all: the journey. And not just Odysseus' journey home after the Trojan War; one of the themes of _The Odyssey_ is the development of Telemachos from a dependent boy into a responsible, independent adult." I glance around the room. "A precipice on which you guys are all standing right now, which makes this story particularly relevant." I grab my own book from the desk behind me. "He's trying to figure out who he is, and what he's going to do with his life, particularly given the absence of his father, which is another aspect of the story to which many students can relate." I purposely don't look at James, or at any of the other students I know to live in single-parent households. "Why don't we start there?"

As the kids take the ball and run with it, dissecting the various challenges presented to Odysseus' son and how he battles them, I attempt to gently draw parallels between his growth and the similar, yet considerably less linear, growth of Odysseus himself, and how his maturation is more of a spiritual development and enrichment of wisdom that will make him a better man and king.

By the time we get around to actually talking about the man Odysseus is when he returns to Ithaca, there are only a few minutes left before the bell rings, and as I ask the kids to pass their books forward, I gaze around the room. "So…final thoughts?"

After a brief beat of silence, Rosalie raises her hand. "I guess…it's like, it sucks that it took him that many years to get to where he's supposed to be, and it sucks that he had to go through all of that stuff to get home, but it's like…by the time he does get home, everything he went through and the lessons he learned make him able to be who he's supposed to be."

I grin. "Rose, I think you nailed it."

She beams, and I return the smile as the bell rings. "Okay, guys, good job today. Grab a copy of _The Great Gatsby_ off the box on my desk as you leave, please. Chapter One reading due Monday; have a good weekend." I collect the final copies of _The Odyssey_ and return to my desk, fishing out the few surplus copies of the Fitzgerald classic before dumping the returned Homer volumes in their place. I watch Emmett and Rosalie – the last two students to leave – as they exit the room, his index finger hooked into the back pocket of her jeans, a teasingly warning smile on her lips as she peeks at him over her shoulder.

I've been teaching Homer for years, and despite repeat readings, repeat teachings, for the first time I feel a kinship with the Greek king: I may be a little bit late in blooming, but I like to think that the wait – and the journey along the way – are helping me to appreciate it. And I'm pretty certain, as I glance over at the small bunch of flowers on the windowsill, that it was worth it.

* * *

"I can't believe you still have your prom dress," I say to Jessica, leaning forward against the pull of my seat belt to peer at my toenails, which are painted a mildly alarming shade of red. The occasions on which I wear sandals are few and far between, but Jess always declares the first pedicure of the season to be something of an event, and I invariably find myself sporting some shade she deems "spring-appropriate" and I deem entirely out of character.

"My mother is a slave to nostalgia," she says. "She tends to think that preserving the artifacts preserves the memories." She snorts as the light ahead turns yellow and she decelerates. "Like I need purple taffeta to preserve the memory of sixty-second Sam."

"Sixty seconds, huh?" I vaguely recall the dark and brooding but undeniably handsome former classmate who escorted Jessica to our senior prom. "That's disappointing."

"Needlessly tragic," Jess agrees as the light turns green again. "Still, I suppose it would be patently unfair for a man that good-looking to be lacking any flaws at all."

"And, to be fair, he _was_ a teenager," I add. "Maybe he outgrew the hair trigger?"

Jess laughs. "We can only hope. Otherwise there's sure to be a trail of disappointed women in his wake."

"No doubt," I agree.

"Still, probably for the best," she sighs. "I was sore enough in the aftermath of that. He may have been quick, but he's certainly not small."

"Hm," I say, gazing through the fading twilight at the passing Forks storefronts. "I honestly don't know which is preferable, your first time or mine."

"Yeah, definite toss-up," she agrees. "Having to ask 'Is it in?' when you're a virgin is really, _really_ sad."

"Thankfully he was too caught up in the moment to feel insulted," I remember as my college sort-of-boyfriend's face floats though my memory.

"Poor bastard," Jess says.

"Indeed."

"I'd say we have both more than upgraded," she declares as she pulls onto the street on which Jess's mother has lived since we were schoolchildren.

"You've got that right," I agree, familiar warmth seeping through me at thoughts of Edward. I check my phone to see if he's responded to my text about our quick detour to Jessica's mom's house to retrieve her old prom dress for the Cinderella Project collection drive tomorrow, but the screen is blank. A glance at the dashboard clock tells me he's probably already en route to the restaurant.

I'm considering my toes once more as the car slows, and when Jess speaks again, it takes me a moment to follow her gaze. "Whose car is that?" she wonders aloud as she pulls into her driveway behind a red sedan, and the confusion in her voice is matched by the immediate creasing of my brow.

"My dad's."

She glances over at me, a mirroring frown on her face. "That's Charlie's car?"

Having no further information to offer, I shrug, and we both get out of the car and climb her porch steps. Jess pushes the unlocked door open and steps inside; I follow and immediately pick up on the muffled tone of my father's familiar voice coming from somewhere at the back of the house.

"Mom?" Jess calls, her voice hesitant. There are sounds of movement, and Mrs. Stanley appears in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. She's opening her mouth to greet her daughter when she catches sight of me, and her eyes widen.

"Bella! Hello, dear." The scrape of chair legs echoes from the hidden room behind her, and she glances back at Jess, who still looks mildly suspicious. "Jessica, is everything all right?"

"Great," Jess says with a small shrug. "I just came to pick up that old dress for the donation project."

"Oh, right!" Mrs. Stanley says, folding her hands together in front of her. "Right, I had forgotten you were going to pick that up. I haven't moved it, so it should still be in the back of your closet."

Jess nods, and an awkward silence follows as the two Stanley women gaze expectantly at each other; finally, Jess breaks it. "Mom?"

"Hm?"

"Why is Chief Swan's car outside?"

There's a cough from the kitchen, and nearly immediately my father appears in the doorway behind Mrs. Stanley, looking sheepish. "Hi, Jessica," he says before his eyes flick to me. "Hey, Bells."

"Dad," I say in greeting, trying valiantly to fight the wry smile that is begging to be set free.

Charlie's expression, in this moment, looks almost exactly like Edward's did when my father barged into my living room, minus the ravaged hair and – I assume – the tented pants. Regardless of how curious I may be, I patently refuse to even entertain the idea of…that. Still, his cheeks are slightly flushed and his eyes can't hold mine and his moustache is twitching slightly, as if he's searching for words. It's then that I notice that my father's wardrobe is as noticeably out-of-character as my tarty toes: he's wearing what appear to be new (and therefore hole-free and freshly pressed) blue jeans in a shade darker than his signature Levi's, and an espresso-colored, long-sleeved button-down shirt. My eyebrows jump, but I know that complimenting my father's attire will only upgrade him from mildly embarrassed to mortified, and I haven't forgotten the hasty retreat he beat from my living room, nor the relatively unobtrusive questions he asked Edward during our "get-to-know-you" dinner. I figure I owe him one.

Jessica's mother is wearing a floral-print dress, and I'm suddenly so delighted for Charlie that I can't stop myself from gripping Jess's elbow and all but dragging her up the stairs. "Okay, well, we're just grabbing the dress and we're out. Bye, Dad! Bye, Mrs. Stanley!"

They watch us go, matching blushes on their faces, and once Jess has grabbed the taffeta explosion from the closet of her childhood bedroom, we beat a hasty retreat, yelling another goodbye over our shoulders as Jess chucks the dress in the trunk and we once again hit the road. It isn't until we're at the stop sign at the top of her street that we burst into giggles.

"Dude, we may have just cockblocked our parents," Jess laughs as she looks both ways, and I erupt into full-blown cackles.

"Oh my God," I laugh, pressing the pads of my fingers to the corner of my eyes. "Please don't say 'cockblocked' when you're talking about my father."

"Seriously, though," she says, and we crack up again, laughing as we pull back out onto the main drag. As our laughter subsides, the truth of the moment hits me.

"Wow," I say as I gaze unseeingly through the windshield, the memory of Charlie in a crisp dress shirt lodged firmly in mind's eye.

"Yeah," Jess agrees. "You didn't know?"

"Are you kidding?" I ask. "I had no idea. I'm pretty sure the last date Charlie had was with my mother." I'm instantly saddened by my own words but am nearly immediately cheered by the new developments. "Wow," I say again.

"Yeah," she repeats, and we drive in silence for a few moments. "I feel like I should say something along the lines of, 'If your dad hurts my mom,' but really I just sort of hope they rock each other's little worlds."

"Ugh, Jess. Again: that's my father you're not-so-subtly making innuendos about."

"Oh, please. The perma-grin that's been stretching your face to nearly unrecognizable proportions is a dead giveaway that you're getting decently laid on a pretty regular basis; you don't want the same happiness for our parental units?"

"Of course I do," I say immediately. "That doesn't mean I want to _know_ about it. Or speculate about it." I glance sideways at her. "Unless picturing your mother donning lingerie is really something you want in your brain."

"Ew," she says immediately. "Okay, point taken." We drive in companionable silence for a few moments before she laughs again and I toss her an expectant look, in response to which she shrugs. "I was just wondering if we should steal a couple of informational pamphlets from your boyfriend's office and slip them into their mailboxes. Lord knows they're both more than a little out of practice."

"Gross, Jess. They've both been married and had kids. I'm sure things…work the same way."

She laughs again. "How long do you think we should wait before totally freaking them out by calling each other 'sister'?"

I echo her laugh. "Until the second date, at least."

"Good call."

By the time we're settled into a six-seater booth at Tacqueria, Jess and I have just regaled our margaritamigos with the play-by-play of our rather spectacular parental date-crash when the waitress appears at the end of the table to take our drink orders.

"We'll take two pitchers of frozen margaritas and six salted glasses," Jess says, shooting warning glances around the table. "Handle it, pretty boys. Your washboard abs can deal with one night of frozen, slushy goodness; Bella and I have just been clobbered with the likelihood that our parents might round first base tonight, and we thank you for your solidarity."

Mark, Jasper, and Edward share glances but smartly opt to remain silent as Jess and Angela place orders for our usual appetizers and the waitress disappears to fill them. Our drinks appear a few moments later, and by the time the nibbles are on the table before us, Edward has recounted highlights from last night's disappointing loss and accepted a blend of condolences and congratulations on a successful season.

"Okay, so I have a poll I'd like to put to the committee," Jasper says, his voice mockingly official, and Jess snorts into her drink.

"Dork," she murmurs.

"Poll?" Mark asks, looking mildly confused at the rather _Survivor_-like turn the evening has taken, and Jess pats his chest in silent reassurance.

"What's up?" Angela asks, scooping a dollop of sour cream onto the edge of her plate and dipping the point of her quesadilla into it.

"I've been thinking about that bullying incident in the gym after the pep rally," Jasper begins, and the teasing melts from Jess's face as we all give him our full attention. Evidently recognizing the change in atmosphere, Jasper rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues. "I was, uh, thinking about asking the administration for approval to start a tolerance club at school. Ideally it'd be like a chapter of a gay-straight alliance, but I'm pretty sure that calling it that would be the best way to ensure that no one joins. And ditto for having the words 'gay,' 'lesbian,' 'bisexual,' or 'transgender' in the club name." He dunks a chip into the salsa, purposely casual. "But I think if I just start it under the umbrella of a group about tolerance and compassion – and nonviolence – there's more of a chance that kids will join it and not feel like it's just a support group for gay students."

"I think it's a great idea," I say immediately, James's sad face at the forefront of my mind and the memory of Jasper's quiet support right on its heels.

"Me too," Angela pipes up, and the other three make varying noises of agreement.

Jasper nods his thanks. "That's not all, though," he says. "I need your opinion."

"Okay," Ang says, and Jasper seems to be choosing his words carefully.

"Does it look self-serving for me to be the adviser for such a group? I mean, it's no secret among the faculty that I'm gay, and it's probably becoming less and less of a secret among the students. I don't want it to seem like it has anything to do with an…agenda of mine." He winces slightly at the words and their implication, and I'm saddened by the knowledge that he's right: it's not a particularly large leap to imagine that a less tolerant student – or even a less open-minded parent – might make such an insinuation. "I want this group to exist, and I want it to be a good thing, and I don't want to impede that in any way. And I certainly don't want to detract from its purpose simply by virtue of being the driving force behind it."

I throw a warning glance at Jessica, but it's a testament to her ability to appreciate the gravity of the topic that she lets the opening for a smart remark slide by unacknowledged.

"I'll do it with you," Edward says immediately, and five sets of eyes fly to him.

"Sorry?" Jasper says, and Edward glances at me briefly before shrugging. "I'll co-advise with you, if you want. And maybe we can get one female adviser so that we have a variety of…perspectives."

Jasper opens and closes his mouth. "Seriously?"

Edward shrugs again, seeming to realize suddenly that we're all essentially gaping at him. "Yeah," he says, flushing slightly. "I mean…why not? I think people know I'm straight—" at this, he flicks a glance in my direction before continuing "—and maybe I can even explain what it's about to some of my guys and get them to join." He trails off, looking around at the rest of us before focusing on Jasper. "I think it's a really good idea. I'd like to help." I remember instantly the immediacy with which he jumped to James's defense, and a familiar bubble of pride rises in my chest.

I'm opening my mouth to volunteer when Jessica pipes up. "Me, too."

If possible, the eyes that focus on her are even more surprised than the ones that found Edward. "What?" I ask, and Jess glances over at me before shrugging.

"Why not?"

"That'd be really great, Jess," Jasper says before I can think of a response, and it strikes me as I turn it over in my brain that her openness would likely be ideal for kids who want to confide in someone without fear of being judged. Provided, of course, that she can refrain from making inappropriate innuendos, which has always been her greatest challenge, but the set in her jaw as she nods solemnly in response to Jasper's gratitude tells me that she'll be just fine.

I raise my half-full glass. "To…whatever you're calling your group."

My friends mimic my toast, and I've never felt prouder of the people in my life than I do in this moment.

"Okay. Thanks," Jasper says, looking mildly relieved. Then, as if to forcibly change the subject, he glances around the table. "So. Parental cockblocks—" at this, he points to me and Jess "—tragic postseason performance—" a finger at Edward "—what's new with you?" he asks, settling on Angela.

She shrugs and peeks around Edward at me. "Remember the flyer for the 'Talking Trash' exhibit we saw on the bulletin board at the film house?" she asks, stirring her margarita with her straw.

"Yeah," I say, snagging a tortilla chip from the nearest basket. The poster was nearly as grim-looking as the exhibit sounded: amateur artists making sculptures and "masterpieces" from garbage.

"Well, I went last night."

"How was it?" Jasper asks, topping up his margarita glass as well as Edward's and mine.

"Awful," she replies immediately. "Really, truly awful. I'm an art educator, and I know there's always value to be found in all forms of creative expression, but…it was garbage. Literally and figuratively. I can't believe the gallery actually agreed to host the exhibit. It was terrible."

"Wow," I say. "Um, sorry?"

She shakes her head. "It's fine. I mean, I had low expectations going in, which was probably prescient."

"Probably," I agree. "Still, it sucks that you drove all that way for a total bust."

Angela's suspiciously quiet, and Jasper's eyes light up. "Aha! Here it is."

Jess frowns. "What? Here what is?"

Jasper grins. "The punch line.

Angela throws a chip at him, but a small smile curls the corners of her mouth. "Yeah. I was standing in front of a sculpture of an egg carton that someone painted like a keyboard – kid you not – muttering about it, and suddenly there's a voice from behind me agreeing with me."

"A voice, huh?" Jess asks, her boy-radar clearly pinging.

"Yeah. One of the art critics for _The_ _Peninsula Palette_." She takes a purposely casual sip of her drink. "We walked through the rest of the exhibit together, and then he asked me to get coffee with him."

Jessica's squeal very nearly breaks the sound barrier, and Mark winces as he sticks a fingertip into the ear closest to her. "Ouch," he breathes, but Jess ignores him.

"Is he hot?" she demands, and as she grills Angela for information, I sneak a look at Edward, who is smiling indulgently. When he catches me looking, his warm hand settles atop my knee beneath the table and his smile turns private. I scoot ever-so-slightly closer to him until my side is pressed flush to his and refocus on the conversation at hand.

Two hours later, I'm drunk. I haven't been drunk in ages – buzzed, yes, tipsy, to be sure, but flat-out hammered? It's been a while. Edward is also plastered, even more so than I am, and is currently dragging his fingertips up and down my bare thigh, drifting dangerously close to the hem of my skirt with each pass. Jessica, who despite her proclamation of "margaritas all around" stopped after a glass and a half, glances knowingly at me in her rearview mirror and I squirm slightly as Edward's fingers trail up and down again. She returns her gaze to the road and turns on the stereo before angling the mirror in a direction that gives her a view not of my flushed face or the headlights of the truck behind us, but of the car ceiling.

"I can't wait to get you home," Edward breathes into my ear, fingers finally sliding beneath my skirt and the pad of his index finger tracing the elastic hem of my underwear, teasing the crease where my thigh meets my hip. I swallow a gasp, and he continues to trace the line of fabric beneath my skirt as the alcohol in my blood is joined by a heavy dose of arousal. He's leaning in to kiss me when Jess's car lurches over the bump at the foot of his driveway, and his fingers slide unintentionally over the damp cotton covering me.

"Okay, we're here, and not a moment too soon," Jessica announces, voice thick with unreleased laughter. "Get your horny asses out of my car, please."

I very nearly fall from her backseat, and Edward stumbles out behind me just as I hear the whir of the driver's side window as it slides open. "Hang on!" Edward spins and does something that makes him look ridiculously like he's standing at attention despite the slight wobble as he rights himself. A second later, he's pelted in the face with a strip of three condoms. "I'd hate for you to be relegated to just the tip," Jess says with a lascivious leer as the window slides back up, and even in the darkness I can see the flush staining his cheeks as he turns to me, his face an adorable blend of intoxication, indignation, and bewilderment.

With a grin, I grab the hand not clutching the charity rubbers and pull him up his front porch. Uncharacteristic curses and a steady stream of horny dialogue are falling from Edward's liquor-loosened lips as he attempts to unlock his door, his front pressed to my back, the point of his chin pressing into my shoulder, the hand not fumbling with the key wrapped around my waist. I can feel the corner of the foil packet digging into the skin between my jeans and my top.

"See?" I tease, leaning heavily back into him as he struggles to put the key in the lock. "Another reason not to bother locking your door." My booze-addled brain attempts to make the witty connection I know is there. "We're being lock-cocked!"

"What?" he asks absently, still messing with the key.

"No, wait. Lock-blocked! No." I lick my lips, which feel suspiciously rubbery. "Lock-cock-blocked." I frown. "My brain is tired. Jess would have nailed that one." I giggle. "Nailed."

He snickers in semi-acknowledgement but finally manages to slide the key home and turns it jerkily before pushing the door open and pushing me inside ahead of him, slamming the door behind us. "Finally," he mutters, kicking off his shoes as I attempt to do the same but trip and fall into him, nearly knocking us both to the floor.

"Sorry," I warble, finally losing my sandals.

"Red," he babbles, staring at my feet.

"What?"

"Your toes. They're red." I frown until I follow his gaze.

"Oh! Yeah! My pedicure." I wiggle my feet against the springy brown carpet in his living room.

"They're sexy," he says, his voice slightly wondrous, and I giggle again. Point for Jess.

When he looks up at me, his eyes hold a heat I'm coming to know all too well, and I half-turn to press my body completely against his. "Sexy, huh?"

"Really sexy," he murmurs, his eyes heavy-lidded. We gaze drunkenly at each other for a few beats before his mouth is on mine, hungry and greedy and hot. I feel the solid wood of the door against my back and the taut muscle of him against my front, and I fist my hands in his hair as he kisses me breathless. Suddenly I feel his hands at the hem of my shirt, pulling it up and over my head without permission; almost instantly, nimble fingers undo the clasp of my bra and slide it down my arms, and I'm standing inside his front door completely topless. Once my brain catches up, I reach for his shirt and he pulls it off by the neckline, dropping it to the floor and pressing his naked chest against mine. I hiss as my bare back comes in contact with the cold wood of his door, and he mutters an apology into my mouth as he kisses me, his hands cupping my breasts and thumbs grazing my nipples before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me toward him. Walking me backward, his hands slide beneath the waistband of my skirt and begin pushing it off my hips; just as it occurs to me to worry about tripping, I feel something solid against the backs of my thighs, and before I identify it, he hoists me onto the back of the sofa, dragging my skirt the rest of the way off my legs. Before I can return the favor, he's undoing and shucking his jeans, the obvious tent in his red boxers making me delirious with want. As he dumps his pants onto the couch behind me, I remember Jess's parting gift.

"Wait," I mumble, breaking his kiss to turn and reach for the discarded pants. As I do, I feel him press against my ass; when I bend to fish the strip of condoms from his discarded pocket, he groans. His hands are on my hips and instead of turning back around, I tear one of the condoms from the others and glance at him over my shoulder, holding the foil square up. He doesn't hesitate to pluck it from my fingers, and I press my palms into the back of his couch as I hear him rip the foil and see his boxers pool on the floor. Gentle fingers slide my underwear down my legs, and I spread my feet just as he guides himself to me and pushes in.

Being bent over by boys who are considerably taller than you can be tricky. With each thrust, Edward is launching me up to the tips of my toes; if not for the solidity of the couch in front of me, I'd have toppled over by now. As it is, my hamstrings are screaming and my calves are trembling and my hipbones are ramming against the wooden bar at the top of his sofa with every drive of his hips.

"You look so hot bent over my couch," he murmurs, leaving me no time to respond before ramming into me again. I gasp as my feet come off the floor and I tip precariously forward, grabbing blindly for a hold on his furniture before his hands tighten on my waist. "Shit," he mutters. "Sorry." His thrusts let up only slightly, and I reach back to put a hand on his hip.

"Hang on," I beg breathlessly, and he pauses but doesn't slip from my body. I straighten and press my back to his chest, and he takes a step back; when my body does free him, I sink to the floor, propping myself on my hands and knees, and his eyes flash as he drops to his knees behind me.

"Oh, God," he says, once again taking hold of my hips. "Really? Like this?"

I flash briefly back to our first night together before the sensation of his tip at my entrance brings me screaming back to the present moment. "Yes," I breathe, arching my back as I feel him push back in. He's been behind me before, but never quite like this; never on the floor, never with me on my hands and knees. He groans softly as he slides back in, and he uses the grip he has on my hips to pull me forcefully back into each of his thrusts. He sets a rhythm, and once we're moving together again, I reach back and wrap a hand around his wrist, dragging it up to cup my breast, which is swaying with each of his movements. He groans and picks up the pace, and even the mounting sting of rug burn on my kneecaps isn't enough to penetrate the fog of drunken arousal as he pushes us both higher and higher.

* * *

When I wake up in the morning to white-yellow sunlight streaming through Edward's bedroom window, he is nowhere to be found. I squint in the direction of his nightstand, noting from his alarm clock that it's only just past eight o'clock. I peek over the side of the bed in search of my clothes before remembering that every last stitch I was wearing last night is currently in Edward's living room. Confident enough in my body but unwilling to traipse through his house naked in broad daylight when I'm unsure of his whereabouts, I slip from the bed and cross the room to his dresser, drawing out a pair of clean boxer shorts and the soccer t-shirt of which I now claim partial custody. As I step into the hallway, the house is quiet, but the telltale aroma of coffee greets me as I draw nearer to the kitchen, and when I peek around the doorframe, I spot him sitting at the small table, peering through the window with a steaming mug in his hand.

"Morning," I say, and his head snaps toward me.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, cheeks suddenly aflame.

"Sleep well?" I ask as he rises to retrieve a mug for me, and as he fills it, I lower myself to the chair beside the one he's just vacated.

"Um, yeah. Thanks." He doesn't ask me in turn, and I frown slightly at how uncharacteristic that is; Edward's boarding school manners are deeply ingrained, and it makes me wonder where his mind is, though I have my suspicions. I don't have to wonder for long.

"Bella, about last night…" he begins, setting the mug down on the table in front of me.

"I knew you were freaking out," I interrupt him, an undeniable note of triumph in my voice. "Don't. Last night was hot. Awesome. Perfect."

"But—"

"I liked it."

His cheeks darken as he returns to his chair. "I wasn't…particularly gentle."

"You don't always have to be gentle." I can tell by the movements of his mouth that he's chewing on the inside of his lower lip. "Why is this bothering you?"

"I just…" He frowns as he gazes at his coffee, tracing the handle of his mug with his thumb. "I feel like I was…a little reckless."

"Edward?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not Emily."

The eyes that meet mine are surprised, and I shrug. "I'm not her. Things that would bother her – understandably – don't bother me. And if something did bother me, I'd tell you in the moment, okay? You'd know immediately. You never have to worry about me not being comfortable with something and not telling you right away."

He seems at least partly mollified by this, some of the tension leaving his broad shoulders. "Okay," he says, but there's still something churning behind his eyes. I stay silent, giving him the chance to find the words. "I…Bella, I…really like…doing all of that stuff with you. The different stuff." For once, I ignore the blush and concentrate on the words. "I like that you want to do different things with me, and I like feeling like you're enjoying them as much as I am. But I like more than just that stuff. I like _you_."

He's losing me, but I reach out a hand and close it around his. "I like you, too. And all the…_stuff_."

He nods, and I can see he's not finished. "I just…" He licks his lips and glances sidelong at me before releasing my hand to grab the seat of his chair and angle it toward me; he resituates us so that his knees are splayed and mine are between them. Once he's resettled, he laces our fingers together again. "Okay. This is going to come out all mangled, just so you know."

I smile. "Okay. Fire away."

"Okay." He blows out a breath and stares at our joined hands, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Bella, I know that 'making love' is considered pretty archaic terminology. I know there are plenty of other euphemisms and expressions and that some of them would be more appropriate than others for…last night." He winces slightly but soldiers on. "But even when it's…like that…to me, it's still making love, because that's how I feel about you." He scratches his nose as his gaze stays on our hands. "Yeah, I'm not saying this right."

"Yes, you are," I say, my voice barely more than breath.

Seeming bolstered by my reassurance, he finally looks up, anxious green eyes considering me intently. "I always want you to know how I feel about you, but probably most especially when we're together like that. I always want you to feel loved, because you are, and the only reason last night made me a little, uh, uncertain was because we haven't really…said those things yet, but I want to be sure that even when it's like that, you know that it's still love to me."

_Text comprehension: the process of extracting or constructing meaning from words._

I'm pretty sure that somewhere in that jumble of words, Edward just told me he loves me.

"It's love to me, too," I tell him, and the residual tension bleeds from his body, which relaxes against the back of his chair even as his eyes brighten.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I murmur, scooting forward to the edge of my chair. He takes my cue and comes forward to meet me, lips equal parts hungry and gentle against mine.

"I love you," he breathes into my open, panting mouth.

"I love you, too," I say into his lips, and his mouth closes around mine again, softly, before he pulls back to grin down into my face. I crane my neck up to kiss his chin, his jaw before cupping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling his ear to my mouth and gently biting the earlobe, which earns me a groan. "Now take me back to bed and show me again."


	15. Chapter 15

**The Practicum**

**Rating: **M. Because why else do we do this?

**Summary: **"Is this you advising me to sow some wild oats, or something?"

**Acknowledgement: **To HollettLA, who started as a beta and quickly became a "fandom friend" and then, not too long thereafter, became simply a friend. (And she's really good with the commas, too.) xo

* * *

**Chapter 15**

Two months after the first time, Edward still hasn't lost the look of wonder he gets whenever I'm straddling him. "Love me," he breathes as I continue to press my damp flesh to his hard, teasing him and watching his abdominal and pectoral and bicep and tricep muscles clench as he grips the slats of his headboard.

"I do," I reply, still making no move to take his body into mine.

His expression is a tortured blend of soft affection and hard need, and he arcs up against me, his knuckles white and forearms tense as they abide by my instructions not to let go. "Please, Bella," he whispers, eyes moving between my breasts and my face as I tease him. I cock an eyebrow in mock question, and he finally disregards my semi-serious order to leave his hands where I put them as he curls one of them around the back of my neck and pulls my mouth to his. "Love me," he begs, voice nothing but breath.

"I do," I say again as I slide him home.

* * *

The bench is hard beneath my back, each individual slat pressing into my spine and hips, but my head is comfortably pillowed in Edward's lap, and the way his fingertips trail absently along the bare skin of my forearm is enough to raise my flesh into pebbles despite the warm temperature. I tent my book across my chest and let my eyes fall closed, listening to the sounds of wind shifting leaves and birds chattering in the distance.

"I don't blame you," comes the amused voice from above me after a few minutes, and I crack my eyes to peer into his face, though his focus stays on his own reading material. His eyes are nearly the same green as the tree that shades us from the bright spring sun, and I watch them as they track lines of text.

"For what?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Virginia Woolf puts me to sleep, too."

"Well it's not quite—" I trail off, craning my neck to catch the title of his book "—_The 17 Indisputable Laws of Teamwork_, but it's engrossing enough."

He loses the battle with his smile and finally tears his gaze away from the page. "Yeah, this is pretty dry," he admits, closing the book and resting it on the bench beside his hip. I feel the hand that was holding his book play idly with my hair.

"What time is it?"

"Almost eleven-fifteen," he says, and I nod against his thighs, gazing absently down my body to where my feet are crossed at the ankles and propped against the arm of the bench, purple toenails beaming back up at me. Ever since Edward's drunken admiration of my bold pedicure a month ago, I've made it more of a habit to wear dark colors; judging by the few covert glances he's tossed at my feet, he appreciates the gesture. "We should probably get a move on," he adds after a few beats of silence, and I nod again despite my reluctance to move.

"Probably," I agree, noting with satisfaction that he doesn't actually urge me to get up. I let my eyes fall closed again, basking in the simple pleasures of the moment: the chirp of late spring, the tenderness of him, the realized dream of lying beneath a tree on a warm day reading with a cute boy. "I don't want to move, though," I admit, and he chuckles.

"I know the feeling." His voice is ever-so-subtly suggestive, and I recall him echoing a similar sentiment a few hours earlier as I all but dragged him from twisted bed sheets to meet Jess and Mark for breakfast at the diner. I smile but offer no verbal response, opting instead to soak up the rest of these moments in silent peace. He continues stroking my hair, his other hand now draped across the back of the bench. He's so endlessly affectionate, so warm, and I wonder how I could have ever thought him cold or reserved or, as Jasper put it, uptight.

To my eternal delight, he still blushes, though less easily – usually when I catch him off-guard, when something remotely suggestive is said outside of the bedroom, when his brain goes naughty places in the presence of someone else. But his discomfort has melted away entirely; his propensity to blush now, I'm learning, is a by-product of chivalry, not unease. He's the rare breed of gentleman that not only opens doors and helps me into my coat, but does half-rises when I approach or leave the dinner table and always makes me walk on the inside of him whenever we find ourselves near a road. It's an entirely new specimen of man for me, and while it's taken some time to get used to, I finally understand the appeal of dating a gentleman – even if I do still sometimes have to get him a little tipsy to get him to surrender the reins to his baser instincts.

"The ceremony actually starts at noon?" he murmurs.

"Yeah."

"Do we need to worry about finding seats?"

"No. Ours are reserved."

"Okay." He seems as reluctant as I am to move, the hand not playing with my hair coming down from the back of the bench to rest on my stomach. "Bella?" he asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Yeah."

"I'd like you to meet my family."

At his words, my eyes pop open and I abandon my blissful repose to lurch upright, staring at him agog. "What?"

"My mother and father want me to visit them in Chicago at some point this summer, and I'd like to take you with me. To, uh, meet them."

It seems only fair, given his rather unceremonious and certainly unannounced meeting of my father, but the mere idea of meeting his parents – whom, for some reason, I have spent months imagining as cold fish of the highest order – fills me with insecurity. Edward, from the evidence I've amassed, seems to scream purebred blue blood. I, on the other hand, am the daughter of a cop from Podunk, Nowhereville. My indecision is evidently a banner on my face, because Edward's once-tender expression pulls into a frown. "You don't have to," he says gently, though disappointment is thick in his voice. "I understand." But I can see that he doesn't, and that he's taking a very deliberate emotional step back to reassess.

I reach out to snag his hand. "No, I'd like to," I say, but he's looking at me doubtfully. "I just…the idea of meeting your parents intimidates me," I admit, and his disappointment gives way to confusion.

"Why?"

I shrug. "I just…think we come from very different backgrounds."

He seems to be turning this over in his mind. "I suppose we do," he says carefully. "I'm still not sure why that would be intimidating."

"I would just…really want them to like me," I hedge, leaving off the second part: _and I'm terrified that they won't._

"I love you," he says, and the ease with which the words fall from his lips still thrills me despite the fact that he tells me every day. "So they'll love you." His expression hardens infinitesimally. "And it wouldn't matter if they didn't."

I opt to leave that alone. "You don't think it's…a little soon?"

"No," he says simply, and I'm bolstered by his utter lack of equivocation even as unease continues to roll in my stomach.

"Okay," I say, though I can't eradicate the hesitation from my voice.

"Do _you_ think it's too soon?" he asks, trepidation back in his face, and the effort he expends trying to sound casual is obvious. I give his question the consideration it deserves, and he watches my face as if he can read the thoughts in my features. Breaking our gaze, he reaches out a single fingertip and absently traces a circle around the bone of my kneecap. I'm watching his face, and I see him lick his lips as his eyes track the path of his finger before looking back up into my face. "Is this the real deal for you?" he asks when I don't answer. His voice is gentle, far more relaxed than the words themselves.

"Yes," I say immediately. That answer, at least, is one with which I have no need to hesitate.

His shoulders drop slightly. "Do you remember how, the first time we kissed, you said we'd take it slow so that by the time we got to the sex part, we'd know if we were better off as friends?"

"Yeah," I say, amazed that he remembers my words almost verbatim.

"Well, it was a great idea. Because by the time we got to the sex part, I already knew I was in love with you." I already knew I was in love with him, too; I acknowledge this with a nod. After a few beats of silence, he reaches up to snag my fingertips from where I have my hands knotted together in my lap. "What's your hesitation?" he asks, focusing on my hands.

"I guess, I just…we did a lot of stuff that was new for you."

"Yes."

"I guess I just wondered if you were at all curious about…new things with other people."

To my surprise, he laughs out loud. "Is this you advising me to sow some wild oats, or something?"

"I don't know," I hedge, even though that was exactly what I was getting at despite my complete lack of desire for him to actually do it.

"I don't need to shop around," Edward says, laughter melting from his voice. "I'm on reserve."

"On reserve?" I ask, frowning up at him.

He shrugs. "You know, like somebody puts something on hold until they're ready to come back and pick it up." He glances up at me, and he's sporting his first flush of the day. "I'm reserved. Taken. Off the market."

There's being exclusive, and then there's this: unspoken acknowledgement that this is it. More than exclusive, more than dating. This is the road to more, and I didn't realize we were both on it until this moment.

"Okay, then," I say, angling my body to face him. "Then this is me, picking you up." I squeeze his fingers. "I'd love to meet your family."

His grin is nearly as bright as the spring sunshine, and I didn't realize how much tension was lingering in his frame until he releases it. "You know what happens after you pick something up?" he asks, curling his free hand around the back of my neck.

"What?"

"You take it home."

I laugh, kissing him once more before pulling back and patting his thigh. "Rain check," I say, rising from the bench. "Graduation, remember?"

He mock-groans as he stands, and I stash our books in my oversized bag as we make our way across the grass toward the entrance of the so-called "park" and onto the sidewalk; true to form, Edward quickly steps around me so that he's the one walking closer to the road.

"I love you in this dress," he says, fingers brushing the thin fabric of the floral-printed garment I wore on our first date before they snag mine in the space between us.

"Yeah?"

He nods. "When I picked you up for that date, it was the first time you looked…different."

I frown. "Sweaty and gross in ratty workout clothes across a diner table wasn't different?"

He chuckles. "No, it was. I guess I meant…softer." His thumb is rubbing against my palm as he watches the sidewalk in front of us. "You sort of intimidated me at first. You seemed so…self-assured. In the classroom, in Forks, among your colleagues, everywhere. I was still so…new. Figuring things out."

"Really?" I'm very nearly struck dumb. I don't think anyone, ever, has painted me with quite the same strokes, and to hear Edward – beautiful, talented, brilliant Edward – do it makes me feel validated in a way that has nothing to do with our romance. I know that my friends and my father and maybe even some of my colleagues like me well enough and possibly even respect me as a teacher, but I don't believe anyone's ever said as much to me point-blank like Edward just did. Then again, the people in my life have known me for years – in some cases, all twenty-nine of them – and when does anyone ever tell a person he's known forever about his first impressions?

"Really," he says, giving me a sideways glance, and I can tell he's amused by my reaction.

"Wow," I reply stupidly. "Well, for what it's worth, you completely put me back on my heels, too."

His eyebrows leap in genuine surprise. "What?"

I feel blood warming my neck as I recall just how affected I was by him in the beginning: the extra attention I paid to my wardrobe, the classes I spent staring at him when I was supposed to be "co-teaching," the after-school hours that were more focused on watching him coach than making lesson plans. "You're just so…_good-looking_. I mean, before I ever even spoke to you, Jasper and Angela and Jessica spent an entire margarita night talking about how none of them would kick you out of bed." I feel only slightly guilty for the immediate fire that steals across his face. "And I didn't disagree with them. And you're a _really_ good teacher, and a really good _guy._ And then, of course, was the little matter of psyching myself up to talk about penises and vaginas and all that stuff with you in front of a bunch of teenagers." A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. "And while we're talking wardrobe, Edward, it's patently unfair how mouthwatering you look in a dress shirt." Reflexively, he glances down at his canary yellow dress shirt, the sleeves of which are – as always – rolled to the elbows. "I'm selfishly glad that you're a PE teacher, because if you worked in an office or something, I'd be sorely tempted to sign on as your secretary just to keep the ladies at bay."

"What, I'm not as mouthwatering in warm-ups?" He's teasing me, but I sigh.

"Actually, sadly, you are." At my confession, he stops us and grabs me by the hips to make me face him; a slightly devilish smirk is dancing at the edges of his mouth as he leans in and breathes against my ear.

"I'm too much of a gentleman to tell you what the sight of you in those close-fitting little teacher's skirts and heels did – _does_ – to me," he murmurs, and that's another thing I've learned about Edward: the boy knows how to _tease_. Just as he's leaning back to observe the effect of his words, we both jump at the sudden blast of a car horn and turn to look toward the road, where Jess is braking as she approaches the school parking lot, Jasper in the passenger seat. Both of my friends – _our _friends – are wearing shit-eating grins as they pass, and I roll my eyes as Edward laughs and we resume walking.

"Still fantasize about pushing my skirts up then, Mr. Cullen?"

"Every damn day, Ms. Swan," he replies, and I could tell him about a few of my own fantasies – ducking beneath his desk and pulling his track pants down around his ankles; straddling him on the craptastic sofa in his office; dry-humping him in the backseat of his car – but we're approaching where Jasper and Jess are waiting beside her car, and while I enjoy seeing him blush, I'm not about to confess quite that much in front of these two.

"Hey," we greet Jasper, and Jess just grins.

"Thank God it's summer," she says, eyes pinging between Edward and me. "You guys have three months to get it out of your systems before you have to act like mature, non-horny adults again." Her grin morphs into a smirk. "And about eight months before you have to teach the Sex Ed curriculum again."

My eyes fly to Edward, who looks as surprised as I feel. Despite how this started, and how thoroughly we've been practicing the sex part of things for the past few months, the idea of talking to a bunch of kids about erections with Edward when I've seen, felt, _tasted_ his takes me aback. Edward clears his throat. He appears to be thinking similar thoughts, if the stain on his cheeks is anything to go by.

"Uh, should we…" He flails a hand in the direction of the building, and we make our way toward the doors.

"I still remember the night we were all talking about it," Jess muses, characteristically unwilling to let it go. "Bella assured us that she was teaching the curriculum, not engaging in a demonstration." She leers at me. "Care to revise that statement?"

"Yes," I reply, a champion at playing Jess's game after years of practice. "I am now thoroughly engaging in demonstrations on a fairly regular basis, including twice last night and once this morning."

Edward sounds vaguely like he might be choking on something, and Jasper gives him a whack between the shoulder blades as we cross the parking lot. "You get used to it," I hear him say as Jess nods at me in approval.

"Nice," she says, and – as I knew she would – lets the subject drop.

Alice and Rosalie are handing out programs at the doors to the gym, and they both beam up at me and Edward with the kind of enthusiasm that only looks appropriate on teenage girls, but are blessedly unable to gush about how "totally cute together" we are, given the ever-growing line of parents and guests behind us. We wind our way toward the front of the gym, to the rows of folding chairs designated as "faculty-staff seating," and spot Angela with a row of open chairs alongside her. I settle beside her with Edward next to me and Jess and Jasper on the other side of him. Flipping through the graduation program, I sigh as some of the names jump out at me.

"The longer I teach, it seems the more kids I knew as toddlers walk across that stage," I muse and Angela laughs. "I can only imagine. I freak out enough when kids I remember as freshmen are graduating."

I point to Rachel Black's name. "Babysat her," I say and Angela grins.

"Yikes."

"You said it."

I feel the crisp cotton of Edward's sleeve against the backs of my shoulders as he rests his arm along the backrest of my chair; as Principal Taylor steps to the mic to begin the program, I lean into his side.

The valedictorian's speech is the typical amalgamation of nostalgia and anticipation, peppered with platitudes about the graduates standing on the precipice of the Rest Of Their Lives, and just as she launches into the importance of Remembering Where They Came From, I feel Edward's fingers gently dragging along the skin of my bicep, just beneath the sleeve of my dress. I peek up at him and he's smiling gently down at me.

When the ceremony is over, Jess, Jasper, Angela, and I compare plans for the post-ceremony graduation party circuit; while I don't teach any senior English classes, a number of students I had as freshmen and sophomores have invited me to their celebrations. Despite his status as a first-year teacher with only one class of senior PE students, Edward got more than a few invites of his own, so we make plans with the other three to hit as many of them as we can together before parting ways.

We make appearances at each shindig – some small, mostly-family get-togethers, others enormous reunion-style outdoor bashes – before Edward and I end up at La Push Beach for the joint celebration for Rachel and Leah Clearwater. Billy raises a hand in greeting as we pick our way across the sand and I return the gesture; he points toward a barrel that experience tells me is full of ice and bottles of beer. I nod and he grins, returning to his conversation with Sam Uley.

"There's your dad," Edward says, and I follow his gaze to where Charlie is standing near the edge of the fire talking with Harry Clearwater, his hand resting at the small of Mrs. Stanley's back. I smile to myself as I lead the way over to him, taking a minor detour to eyeball the table of food and assemble a small paper plate with cubes of cheese, crackers, a handful of chips, and a generous scoop of something that looks like buffalo chicken dip. Edward, true to form, gathers a handful of celery, carrot, and cucumber sticks, cherry tomatoes, and a small dollop of vegetable dip.

"You eat like a rabbit," I tease him for the umpteenth time, and he snorts as he grabs a bottle of water from the cooler at the foot of the table.

"This is energy food," he retorts, and I turn to lead us the rest of the way to where Charlie is standing. "_That_," he continues, pointing to my sampling of artery-blockers, "is junk."

"Delicious junk," I edit, and he concedes that point with a laugh and a nod. En route to where my father lingers, Edward and I cross paths with Rachel, whose dark eyes dance with reflected light from the fire. She looks happy and ecstatic and alive with the unique sense of possibility reserved for those on the precipice of a new journey, and she beams up at us in welcome.

"Congratulations, Rachel," I say, giving her a hug and stepping back to let Edward congratulate her as well.

"Thanks," she says, pushing her dark hair back off her face. "And thanks for coming."

"Of course," I reply as Edward's hand comes up to rest on the small of my back. "So, UCLA in the fall, huh?"

She nods, a small smile of anticipation on her face. "Yeah. I'm really excited. Dad is freaking out about the LA part of it, but I figure I have three months to get him to chill out."

I laugh, remembering Charlie's anxiety about my being at Berkeley – an anxiety that in no way lessened over the four-year span of my education. "Good luck with that," I say. "Dads aren't so good at the chilling out."

She echoes my laugh. "Tell me about it."

"Do you know what you want to study?" Edward asks, his hand making slow, absent circles on my spine.

"I think…education," she says. "I'm thinking about teaching."

"You'd be great at it," I tell her honestly. I've watched Rachel with her younger siblings for years, and her seemingly endless patience – even when she was a kid herself, and then a preteen – has always amazed me. I've often wondered how much of that is a result of having lost her mother at such a young age and how much of it is simply Rachel.

"Thanks," she replies, shrugging. "We'll see. I might change my mind when I get there, but I've always liked the idea of teaching."

"High school?" I ask, and she shakes her head immediately.

"God, no," she laughs. "I don't even like teenagers now, and I _am_ one. I don't think I could ever go back to high school now that I'm free of it for good."

I tamp down the knowing smile that tries to curl my mouth; Rachel's words could have been mine not that many years ago. "Well, you never know," I say vaguely.

"I guess not," she allows. "But seriously, if I wind up teaching high school _anything_, I'd like you to please make sure I haven't been body-snatched."

I laugh again. "Deal."

She nods, and is just opening her mouth to say something more when Leah appears at her side and loops her arm through Rachel's. "The parentals want to do cake," she informs her, then grins at me and Edward. "Thanks for coming," she says, and we both nod in response. As Rachel gives us a half-wave and I watch them bounce across the sand toward the table of food, they remind me somewhat of Alice and Rosalie, and I'm struck, not for the first time, by the cyclical nature of high school. Freshmen come and seniors leave, and yet somehow the feeling of the place never really changes. For all intents and purposes, I could be standing at one of my classmate's graduation parties more than a decade ago, the only difference being the abundance of camera phones in the vicinity. And while Rachel is a brilliant young woman who could certainly wind up teaching college as a professor, it wouldn't surprise me any more if she became a colleague of mine somewhere down the road. As I've learned, it's funny how different a place can feel when you experience it from a new vantage point. It's also funny how, the closer you get to wanting to settle, the more appeal "home" has.

"Where'd you go?" Edward murmurs, crunching on a carrot stick as he slips his hand back around my hip, and I shake my head.

"High school graduation flashbacks," I say, and he chuckles.

"Ah. Yeah, I can imagine." He watches as a knot of people forms around the food table and the guests of honor. "I would have loved to see you as a high school kid."

I groan. "Oh God, no you wouldn't have. I was awkward and ungainly and a complete misfit."

"Well, I was a gangly geek who was afraid of girls," he counters.

I laugh as I hear the Billy's muffled voice; while I can't quite pick out the words, it's clear that he's making his proud-papa speech. "So you're saying that we might have been a pretty decent match even as teenagers?"

"Yes," he says simply.

"Too bad you didn't grow up in Forks, then," I reply. "We could have done the whole 'dry-humping-in-the-backseat' thing a decade ago."

"I didn't have a car in high school," he replies.

"I had my truck," I counter, and he laughs.

"Oh, yes. The flatbed could have been trouble." His tone is light, and I'm mildly surprised by the thin thread of regret that winds its way into my brain that I _didn't_ get to cross off more true firsts with him. When he glances down at me again, the direction of my thoughts must be evident on my face because his brow creases slightly. "You okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. My mind was just wandering."

"Anywhere fun?" He releases my hip and plucks a cucumber from his plate, munching it as we watch the semicircle of people around the graduates.

"Not really," I say. "Just picturing what it would have been like if you _had_ been here back then."

If he hears the minor chord of regret, he opts to deflect it instead of dissecting it. "But then I would never have learned all of those masturbatory euphemisms," he says.

"That would have been unfortunate," I agree, sliding a chip through the pile of dip on my plate. "I mean, what would my life be without 'mangling the midget'?" I peek up at him, delighted to see the familiar pink stealing across his cheeks.

"Yeah, it probably wasn't the smartest move on my part to include that one on the list before you'd actually had a chance to confirm that 'midget' is an…inaccurate representation." There's something about the discrepancy between mischievous, mildly-perverted Edward and proper, boarding-school Edward that still intrigues me. I'm opening my mouth to reply when he continues. "You know, it occurs to me that you keep mentioning the backseat thing." He glances down at me, eyes dancing. "Is there a story there that you haven't told me?"

I'm grateful for the darkness, which hides the sudden flush of my face. "No," I say honestly. "It was just…something I said early on that stuck."

"Did you ever…do that? In high school?"

I shake my head. "No. I've actually never done that. In a car."

"Really," he says, dragging out the vowels as he pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. "So there's something we need to cross off _your_ list, then." It's not a question, and I can see the wheels in his mind turning as the cluster of people across the sand breaks into applause.

"Maybe there is," I concede, purposely not looking at him, because I know that if I do, I'm going to want to beat a hasty retreat from this party and cross it off right the hell now.

"Interesting," he says as the applause dies down, and we stand in companionable silence for a few minutes before he leans away from me and drops his now-empty plate into a nearby barrel doubling as a garbage can. After taking mine from me and discarding of it as well, he reaches into the pocket of his slacks. A beat later, his hand reappears. "Here," he says, handing me a small box that looks like a jewelry gift box.

"What's this?"

"A car," he deadpans, and I roll my eyes even as an involuntary smile pulls at my mouth. I pull the lid off the box, and inside is what appears to be a house key. When I peek up at him, he's studying me intently. "I lock my doors," he says, as if by way of explanation, and I laugh.

"Well, I rarely show up at your house without you in tow," I say, even as the significance of the gesture makes me feel all girly and sappy. "But thank you." I rise to my toes to kiss his mouth, but he pulls back.

"Nope. Not quite what I meant."

I frown. "This isn't your house key?"

"It is."

"Okay. I'm lost."

"I'd like it to be _our_ house key."

"What?"

He breaks my gaze to look at the sand, which he's drawing into a small ridge between his feet and then stepping on before gathering it back up again. "I, uh, meant what I said earlier. I'm off the market. If you are too, I'd like you to move in with me." He glances at me before returning his focus to the ground. "I mean, it doesn't have to be immediately. Whenever you're ready. Or if you're not, that's fine, too. You can keep the key anyway, since I do lock my doors." He's rambling, and even in the flickering firelight, I can tell he's blushing. "You can just, uh…keep it." He's looking everywhere but at me, and I can see by the color of his cheeks and the twitch at his temple that he has already convinced himself of my answer before I've given it.

"Edward?"

"Yeah." He still doesn't look at me, dropping his gaze once again to the sand between his feet.

"I'm going to want full-fat ice cream in the freezer at all times. None of this sorbet or nonfat frozen yogurt crap."

His surprised eyes fly to my face, and his jaw stops twitching as his mouth falls slightly open. "Really?"

I nod. "Really. I can get pretty cranky if I don't have it at my immediate disposal."

He grabs my hand and tugs it gently so that I'm pressed up against his torso; his hands knot together at the small of my back. "Don't tease me," he says, his eyes darting between my eyes and my mouth.

"I thought you liked it when I tease you," I reply, even as my desire to do so is rapidly waning.

"I like you teasing my body," he says, eyes flickering with something that has nothing to do with the fire roaring behind me. "My heart's a little bit of a different story." His words are so exposed, so defenseless that any residual teasing I had in me is extinguished.

I reach up to place a hand on his chest, just to the left of his row of buttons. "I'm not teasing you," I say. "About the ice cream or about my answer."

"So that's…yes?" he clarifies, smile barely concealed.

"That's yes," I confirm, beaming up at him.

He swoops down to kiss me, hard and soft, possessive and passive, and when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against mine. "Thank you," he breathes into the small gap between us, and I lace my fingers together behind his neck.

"Thank you for asking me."

He's grinning as he pulls away, and I return the smile before turning and leaning back against his chest; his arms band around my waist as we gaze into the flames that leap up toward the inky sky, occasional sparks jumping as kindling fractures in the flames.

"I have to say, I'm a big fan of this beach," Edward murmurs against my ear, and I shiver in response as my eyes go skyward and I remember cool air and warm blanket cocoons.

"Me too," I murmur, leaning back into him.

"If your father weren't a stone's throw away, I'd be sorely tempted to recreate a particular scene out of _From Here to Eternity._"

I chuckle against him. "Yeah, this is the Pacific Northwest, not Newport Beach. I don't know a single man who wants to bare his…parts to those frigid waters."

"Hm. Fair point. Someday I guess I'll just have to take you to some tropical beach, then." Unbidden, my mind flashes to the most likely occasion that would warrant taking a week away from our lives and frolicking together on a white-sand beach somewhere exotic. "I wouldn't say no to that," I breathe, immediately anxious that my true meaning is apparent in the tone of my voice.

Edward's arms tighten around my frame. "Good to know," he murmurs in my ear and presses a featherlight kiss to the curve of my neck. A throat clears behind us, and I crane my neck to find Charlie and Mrs. Stanley – whom I'm not yet comfortable calling Barbara, despite her insistence – standing just behind Edward. I bite back a laugh at the way Charlie's hand drops from her lower back as I register his presence, and I give them a small wave.

We make small talk for a few minutes – the ceremony, the speeches, the fact that Rachel Black is off to college, how fast the time goes. "It doesn't seem like all that long ago it was your graduation, Bells," Charlie says in a rare show of nostalgia.

"Maybe for you," I say on a chuckle. "For me, it feels like a lifetime."

Charlie glances off to one side, where Billy is beside Rachel, his face a mosaic of pride and bittersweet joy. "He'll miss her," he says somewhat absently, and I'm treated to a brief flash of memory: Charlie, the night after my own graduation, standing in my bedroom doorway with a trio of movies he'd rented from the local video store, all recently released chick-flicks he had no interest in seeing. I recall now what I didn't lend much thought to at the time: that he'd spent more of the evening watching me than the movie we selected. A sharp stab of affection for my gruff father hits my chest.

"She might wind up back here," I say, lacing my fingers through Edward's where they still rest against my stomach. "You never know."

Charlie nods, facing me once again, and I smile at the familiar expression on his face: hope, doubt, guilt, relief. As if he can read between the lines of conversation we're not really having, Edward squeezes my fingers between his own. "Life has a funny way of putting us where we're meant to be," he offers, and in the corner of my vision, I see Mrs. Stanley's fingers brush gently against Charlie's where their hands hang beside each other between them.

"Isn't that the truth?" she muses, and Charlie glances at her, the familiar expression of jumbled emotions shoved aside by one I haven't seen him bestow upon a woman since I was a toddler: adoration.

"Okay," I say, "well, we're pretty beat from all of this party-hopping, so I think we're going to head out."

Charlie nods. "I don't think we'll be far behind you. Just want to say goodbye to Harry before we go."

I step out of Edward's embrace and press a kiss to my dad's cheek. "See you later," I say, and I don't bother fighting the smile that creeps onto my face when his hand snakes back up to Mrs. Stanley's back as Edward says goodbye.

He leads me to his car and after closing the passenger door beside me, half-jogs around to the driver's side, sliding inside and turning the key in the ignition. Once we're out of the lot and on the road, he finds my hand with his, running a thumb over my knuckles.

"You survived your first Forks graduation ceremony," I muse, letting my head fall back to rest against my seat.

He chuckles. "I did," he agrees, his profile softly lit by the moon as the car noses its way along the tree-lined road toward Forks.

"And your first year at Forks," I add, and he nods again, then frowns.

"Well, technically, half a year. I have yet to experience the fall semester," he reminds me.

"Ah, yes. Homecoming and Halloween and the Fall Festival and the Snow Ball…there is much to teach you, still."

"I look forward to it," he muses, and I chuckle as we fall silent, dark silhouetted scenery sliding by. When we pull back onto the main drag in Forks, I peek at his face, intermittently lit by streetlights, and the spark I always feel when I look at him settles into a warm burn low in my abdomen. I return my focus to my window and frown.

"Where are we going?" I ask when the turn-off for his house passes by.

"Quick detour," he says, flicking his eyes to me before refocusing on the road; a few minutes later, he pulls into the driver's ed parking lot of Forks High School and turns off his headlights before killing the ignition and unbuckling his seat belt. When he angles his body toward me, his eyes are sparkling. "Bella?"

"Yeah?"

He watches my mouth form the question before his eyes lift to mine and a grin stretches his faintly pink face. "Get in the backseat."

* * *

_A/N: Well, that's it for blushing Sex Ed-Ward. Thanks for coming along for the ride; I hope it lived up to its promise of "fluff and porn and naked Edward." I'm working on something new; hope to see you then. In the meantime, I wrote a one-shot called "The Hot Seat," which can be found on my author profile. xo_

_Also, _The 17 Indisputable Laws of Teamwork_ is actually a really good read if you're involved in athletics, management, or any endeavor that involves working with other people. In case you were wondering. ;)_


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